CAMINO 
CALIFORNIA 

BY 

ARTHUR  W.  NORTH 


Digitized  by  tlie  Internet  Arcliive 
in  2014 


https://archive.org/details/campcaminoinloweOOnort_0 


CAMP  AND  CAMINO 
IN 

LOWER 
CALIFORNIA 


Scene  on  El  Camino  Real 


CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN 
LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


A  RECORD  OF  THE  ADVENTURES 
OF  THE  AUTHOR  WHILE  EXPLORING 
PENINSULAR  CALIFORNIA,  MEXICO 

BY 

ARTHUR  WALBRIDGE  NORTH 

AUTHOR  OF 

'*THE  MOTHER  OF  CALIFORNIA'' 
WITH  A  FOREWORD  BY 

ADMIRAL  ROBLEY  D.  EVANS 
U.  S.  N. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  BAKER  &  TAYLOR  COMPANY 
1910 


COPYRIGHT.  1910,  BY 

THE  BAKER  c2f  TAYLOR  COMPANY 


Published,  April,  1910 


THE  PREMIER  PRESS 
NEW  YORK 


In  memory  of  the  loving  hospitality  of 
that  peaceful  Catskill  home  wherein 
these  pages  were  written^  I  inscribe 
this  volume  to  my  kinswoman^  Miss 
Sarah  Norths  of  Walton^  and  to  the 
memory  of  her  sister^  the  late  Miss 
Margaret  North . 


FOREWORD 


When  a  man  is  in  the  midst  of  dangers  himself  he  has 
small  chance  for  books;  but  let  him  once  be  deprived  of  per- 
sonal excitement  and  then  even  to  read  of  the  adventures 
of  others  becomes  a  most  satisfying  diversion.  I  have  en- 
joyed looking  over  the  manuscript  of  this  work  of  Mr. 
North's.  Indeed,  every  man  with  an  ounce  oi  red  blood  in 
his  veins  or  any  fondness  for  a  dash  of  excitement  or  a 
whiff  of  fresh  air  will  obtain  a  whole  lot  of  pleasure  by 
reading  it.  In  following  the  author  along  El  Camino  Real 
and  about  the  old  Spanish  missions,  I  have  had  glimpses 
of  a  fascinating  life — a  wholesome  out-door  living — that 
have  driven  other  things  from  my  mind,  while  his  experi- 
ences with  maurauding  Indians  and  in  pursuit  of  big  game 
make  one  anxious  to  share  the  excitement  with  him* 

But  it  has  not  been  merely  because  of  the  fascination,  the 
humorous  situations  and  the  interesting  characters  that  I 
have  enjoyed  the  perusal  of  these  pages;  they  have  deeper 
interest.  Years  ago,  on  first  entering  Magdalena  Bay,  I 
was  impressed  with  the  magnificence  of  that  superb  harbor; 
in  March,  1908,  anchoring  there  with  the  fleet,  I  realized 
more  than  ever  its  prospective  importance.  But  I  could 
merely  look  at  the  grim  shores  from  the  deck  of  the  Con- 
necticut  and  wonder,  as  I  had  done  before,  what  might  lie 

7 


8        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


inland.  In  these  pages,  however,  one  learns — and  it  is  a 
knowledge  worth  having — of  the  whole  territory  in  an  inti- 
mate and  agreeable  fashion,  the  author  having  ventured 
across  and  up  and  down  the  entire  California  Peninsula: 
it  is,  therefore,  a  pleasure  for  me  to  link,  by  this  introduc- 
tion, my  Lower  California  associations  with  Mr.  North's 
adventures  in  the  romantic  *^Land  of  Magdalena  Bay." 

R.  D.  Evans, 
Rear  Admiral  U.  S.  N. 

Lake  Mohonk,  New  York. 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 


If  when  writing  the  closing  chapter  of  this  volume  I 
could  have  looked  ahead,  reading  in  the  future  that  a  year 
and  a  half  must  intervene  before  final  revision,  such  pros- 
pective delay  would  have  been  almost  incomprehensible  to 
me.  And  yet  you  who  peruse  these  pages  may  smilingly 
understand  how  their  author  might  turn  abruptly  from  con- 
ventional life,  seeking  anew  the  fascination  of  the  frontier. 

"Yes,  they're  wanting  me,  they're  haunting  me,  the  awful 
lonely  places ; 

They're  whining  and  they're  whispering  as  if  each  had  a 
soul. 

And  now  they're  all  a-crying  and  it's  no  use  me  denying, 
The  spell  of  them  is  on  me  and  I'm  helpless  as  a  child. 
My  heart  is  aching,  aching,  but  I  hear  them  sleeping,  waking; 
It's  the  Lure  of  little  Voices;  it's  the  mandate  of  the  Wild. 
There's  a  whisper  in  the  night  wind,  there's  a  star  agleam  to 
guide  us, 

And  the  wild  is  calling    ....    let  us  go." 

— Service, 

How  can  a  wanderer  withstand  such  pleadings  I 
Now  that  I  write  again  the  year  and  a  half  seem  good. 
Neither  a  shoulder  doubly  fractured  in  the  Rockies,  nor  a 
lesser  accident  in  the  Arizona  canyons  count  in  the  summing 

9 


lO      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

up.  Life  Is  invariably  good;  provided  the  trail  to  the  wil- 
derness lies  open.  And  if  these  pages  can  bring  to  their 
readers — particularly  to  those  who  craving  the  charm  of  the 
wilds  and  the  thrill  of  adventure  yet  may  not  wander  from 
fireside  or  desk — a  share  in  the  keen  delight,  the  rare  exhila- 
ration of  the  succeeding  months  of  out-door  living  therein 
outlined,  then  to  the  writer  this  work,  though  delayed,  was 
well  worth  the  doing. 

Arthur  W.  North. 

Salt  Lake  City, 

March  i,  igio. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Foreword  ........  7 

Author's  Preface       ......  9 

Part  L    Terra  Incognita 

CHAPTER 

I.    A  Mission  and  Some  Indians  .        .        •  17 
II.    Mountain  Sheep  .....  25 

III.  A  Parson,  a  Wrong  Direction  and  More 

Indians  .        .        .        .        .  .31 

IV.  Uncle  Sam's  Lost  Province    ...  43 

V.    Wherein  I  Lose  My  Parson  and  Fall  in 

with  Senor  Dick      .        .        .  -57 

VI.    The   Petroglyph    Makers   and  Southern 

Indians    ......  65 

VII.    Some  Final  Missionary  Labors  and  the 

Sierra  C amino  Real  .        .        .  -75 

VIII.    Wherein  I  Bag  Mountain  Sheep  and  Meet 

the  Laird        .....  89 

IX.    With  the  Laird  Along  El  C amino  Real    .  loi 

X.    The  Lost  Gulfo  Camino  and  the  Cannibal 

Isle  of  Tiburon        .        .        .  .123 

XI.    Into  the  Antelope  Country    .        .  .135 

XII.    Thirst       .        .        .        .        .  -149 

II 


12 

contents 
Part  11.    The  Widening  of  the  Trail. 

XIII. 

Sanlgnacio?   The  Favored  . 

165 

XIV. 

Santa  Rosalia,  a  French  Municipality  in 
Mexico  ...... 

173 

XV. 

To  Loreto!  ...... 

189 

XVI. 

The  Pearl  Missions  of  the  Jesuits  . 

213 

XVII. 

A  Long  Forced  March  .... 

223 

XVIII. 

La  Paz  and  Some  Other  Pueblos 

237 

XIX. 

The  Story  of  Magdalena  Bay. 

247 

Part  IIL    La  Frontera  Again 

XX.    A  Frontier  Ball  and  Again  the  Sierras 

XXL    The  Top  of  the  Peninsula 

XXIL  Wherein  I  Witness  a  Combat  Between 
Mountain  Sheep,  Revisit  the  Catarinas 
and  Search  for  Treasure 

XXIIL    In  and  Out  the  Region  of  the  Colorado 

XXIV.    The  End  of  the  Trail  . 

Appendix  ..... 

Bibliography  .... 

Index  ..... 


259 
267 

285 
297 

317 
323 
335 
343 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Scene  on  El  Camino  Real         .         .  Frontispiece 

OPPOSITE  PAGE 

Upper  entrance  of  the  Arroyo  Grande    ...  26 

View  from  the  north  slope  of  San  Pedro,  Martir 
Sierra,  toward  Colentura  Arroyo,  where  Walker 
led  his  Filibusters       .        .        .        .  .28 

A  cavalcade  of  Easter  worshippers       ...  30 

Petroglyphs     .......  66 

(a)  Hour  glass  (San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra). 

(b)  Pine  trees  (San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra). 

(c)  Arroyo  Grande  Petroglyphs. 

(d)  San  Fernando  Petroglyphs. 

The  aged  Cochimi  of  Santa  Gertrudis    ...  72 

The  author  and  his  party  leaving  the  ruins  of  Junipero 

Serra's  Mission  of  San  Fernando  de  Velicata    .  80 

The  ancient  Sierra  Camino  Real,  leading  to  the  one- 
time Jesuit  Mission  of  Santa  Maria         .        .  86 

The  Agua  de  Youbai  .         .         .         .  .104 

A  rocky  section  of  El  Camino  Real       .        .  .104 

(Reproduced  from  *'The  Mother  of  California,"  by  courtesy  of  the 
Publishers,  Paul  Elder  &  Company 

An  unprepossessing  Mestizo  .        .        .  .132 

The  Mission  of  Santa  Gertrudis  ....  136 

Santa  Rosalia  .        .        .  .        .        .  .174 

13 


14  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Yaqui  Indians  at  Santa  Rosalia     .        .        .  .186 

Ancient  Jesuit  Mission  at  Mulege;  Padre  Marseliano 

in  foreground    .         .         .         .         .  .196 

The  Mission  of  La  Purisima       ....  202 

The  walled-up  doorway  of  the  Mission  of  San  Jose  de 

Comondu .......  206 

The  carved  wooden  Saint  of  San  Jose  de  Comondu  210 

Ancient  Mission  Bells  at  Loreto;  Sea  of  Cortez  in  the 

distance    .        .        .        .        .        .  .216 

The  mother  and  child  in  the  chapel  at  Loreto  .  .220 

Mission  of  San  Xavier  de  Vigge,  showing  west  entrance 

(to  the  left)  224 

Burros  on  the  march  .... 

The  Pithaya  Dulce  or  *'Organ  Pipe"  Cactus 
tive  cavaliers  .... 

A  rare  stream  of  water 

Porch  of  the  ancient  house  of  the  Hidalgos 
Antonio  Real  .... 

At  anchor  off  San  Jose  del  Cabo  . 

Magdalena  Bay  .... 

Ensenada  ..... 

The  uncharted  Sierra  of  San  Pedro  Martir 

The  Colonel  ..... 


and  na 


at  San 


234 
234 

242 
246 
252 
260 
268 
278 


Part  I 
TERRA  INCOGNITA 


Camp  and  Camino  in 
Lower  California 


CHAPTER  I 

A  MISSION  AND  SOME  INDIANS 

IT  was  the  last  day  of  the  year  1905.  With  sweater, 
hunting  shirt,  coat  and  slicker  drawn  close  about  me, 
I  bent  forward  before  the  raw  wind  that  came  shriek- 
ing down  from  the  snowy  peaks  of  San  Pedro  Martir 
Sierra.  With  chattering  teeth,  I  thrust  my  aching  fingers 
deep  into  my  pockets.  The  reins  hung  loose  over  the  iron 
pommel  of  my  stock  saddle:  my  mule  could  keep  the  trail 
or  not,  I  was  too  cold  to  care. 

And  this  was  hot,  barren,  desert  Baja  or  Lower  Cali- 
fornia, land  of  palms  and  deserts  and  snakes,  terra  incog- 
nita where  once  missions  flourished,  the  territory  over  whose 
broiling  sands  I  had  often  traveled  en  route  to  equally  hot, 
barren,  craggy  mountains  where  the  exciting  prospect  of 
mountain  sheep  ever  awaited  me!  A  territory  in  which  I 
had  found  the  heat  making  night  the  preferable  time  for 
travel ! 

Certainly  there  must  be  a  mistake.  But  no,  before  me 
was  the  ever  necessary  canteen  tied  short  to  the  saddle  pom- 
mel. Yet  no  sound  of  jolting  water  was  to  be  heard.  The 
canteen  contained  a  solid  mass  of  ice !  Each  biting  gust  of 
the  wind  seemed  sharper  than  the  one  preceding.  I  beat 
my  elbows  against  my  ribs  and  pressed  my  knees  close 

17 


1 8      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


against  my  mule  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  some  warmth. 
And  this  was  Lower  California  weather!  Heavens,  I 
thought,  what  does  any  one  know  of  this  ancient,  deserted, 
next-door  neighbor  of  California ! 

Two  young  American  friends  of  mine  were  riding  some- 
where near  with  Juan,  a  Mexican  ranchero,  and  two  pack 
mules.  It  required  no  questioning  to  determine  their  state 
of  frigidity.  Even  the  mules  looked  at  me  accusingly.  We 
were  perhaps  a  hundred  miles  east  of  the  Mexican  pueblo 
of  Ensenada  and  about  sixty  miles  southwest  of  the  mouth 
of  the  Colorado  River.  We  had  come  through  a  moun- 
tainous region  which  opened  into  a  grease-wood  covered 
stretch  of  land  that  strongly  reminded  me  of  the  Coconino 
Basin  near  the  Grand  Canon  of  the  Colorado. 

Suddenly  Cabeza  de  Vaca  stopped  abruptly  and  looked 
to  the  east.  Cabeza  Is  a  powerful,  fine-looking,  buck-skin 
mule ;  stumbling  is  a  frailty  of  which  his  zebra-striped  legs 
have  no  knowledge.  His  name  he  acquired  by  gift  from 
me,  his  temporary  master.  It  is  certainly  a  fitting  name, 
for  Alvarez  Nunez,  Cabeza  de  Vaca,  was  one  of  the  great- 
est of  Spanish  wanderers,  and  this  clean-limbed  buck-skin 
is  expected  to  carry  me  over  a  couple  of  thousand  miles  of 
rugged  exploration.  I  followed  Cabeza's  glance  and  saw  a 
black  horse,  a  bay  colt  and  a  black  dog  strung  out  In  line 
following  an  Indian  along  a  trail  that  promised  soon  to 
unite  with  ours.  My  spurs  urged  on  my  steed  and  we  joined 
the  dark  company.  The  Indian  proved  to  be  a  Catarlna 
Yuma,  an  ex-chief  of  the  tribe,  as  I  was  to  learn  later.  He 
was  on  his  way  to  his  home,  a  mile  farther  to  the  southeast. 
From  this  Information,  gleaned  through  my  poor  Spanish, 
I  knew  that  we  were  near  the  old  Dominican  Mission  of 
Santa  Catarlna  de  los  Yumas — and,  also,  near  the  rancheria 
of  the  worst  of  the  Peninsula  Indians. 

I  studied  the  man.   He  was  doubtless  In  his  fifties,  a  wiry, 


A  MISSION  AND  SOME  INDIANS 


19 


pleasant-faced,  copper-hued  hunter.  On  his  shoulder  he 
carried  a  muzzle-loading  shot-gun,  an  ancient  weapon.  He 
wore  a  broad-brimmed  sombrero  of  felt,  a  grey  serapa,  or 
blanket,  drawn  close  about  his  shoulders,  and  a  thread-bare 
pair  of  faded  overalls.  Although  raw-hide  guarachas  or 
sandals  protected  the  soles  of  his  feet  from  thorns,  his  feet 
and  ankles  were  left  uncovered  and  exposed  to  the  cold. 
He  would  neither  speak  in  nor  respond  to  English,  which 
fact  is,  however,  no  proof  that  an  Indian  does  not  under- 
stand that  language.  In  response  to  a  question  in  Spanish 
from  Juan,  he  stated  that  his  father  had  lived  at  the  mis- 
sion in  the  days  of  the  Frailes,  or  Friars,  and  that  the  holy 
men  were  hard  taskmasters,  frequently  tying  the  Indians  to 
trees  and  giving  them  twenty-five  lashes  on  the  back  in  pun- 
ishment for  refusal  to  work.  A  true  statement,  perhaps, 
though  I  could  see  no  trees. 

Our  party  advanced  in  the  wake  of  the  Indian  and  his 
animals.  Juan,  though  an  exceptionally  well  informed  resi- 
dent of  the  country,  could  give  us  little  information  con- 
cerning either  the  mission  or  the  Indians  we  were  approach- 
ing. The  former,  he  believed,  had  been  the  scene  of  much 
trouble;  of  course  there  was  a  rich  ledge  of  ore  somewhere 
near  it,  for  all  the  missions  were  near  good  mines — only 
it  is  usually  impossible  to  locate  the  ledges.  A  dozen  years 
ago,  he  said,  at  the  time  of  his  last  visit  to  the  mission,  he 
had  found  the  metal  handles  of  an  ancient  Spanish  chest 
and  had  seen  an  excavation  in  the  mission  ruins  where  a 
lucky  Sonora  man,  on  the  previous  day,  had  found  a  chest 
of  buried  treasure;  all  the  missions  had  buried  treasure — 
only  it  is  usually  impossible  to  locate  the  hiding  places.  Of 
the  history  of  the  mission  he  knew  nothing;  during  the  ex- 
citement over  the  gold  placers  at  Alamo,  near  by,  many 
strangers  had  visited  Santa  Catarina,  but  even  they  had 
seemed  ignorant  of  mission  records  and  traditions.  The 


20      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


Indians?  They  had  always  been  bad  Indians,  ladrones 
(robbers),  and  even  worse;  it  would  not  be  well  for  us  to 
remain  long  near  their  rancheria. 

Coming  down  over  the  brow  of  a  hill,  we  entered  a  lonely 
valley,  set  away  in  the  grim  mountains  which  rose  in 
rougher  and  higher  ridges  beyond  and  to  the  southeast  of 
us.  Of  ruins  we  could  see  nothing.  Barking  dogs,  how- 
ever, drew  our  attention  to  several  Indian  shacks  at  the 
further  side  of  the  valley  and  to  one,  more  striking  than 
the  others,  crowning  the  crest  of  a  small  circular  knoll  im- 
mediately below  us.  To  this  latter  shack  our  guide  directed 
his  steps.  We  turned  to  the  left;  a  furlong  brought  us  to 
the  mission  ruins,  lying  on  a  slight  eminence  overlooking 
the  valley.  There  was  little  enough  to  see:  mere  earthen 
outlines  rising  from  a  foot  to  a  yard  above  the  surface, 
tracings  of  what  once,  however,  had  been  a  considerable 
adobe  fort  with  bastions  at  the  corners  and  apartments  built 
against  the  walls  and  opening  into  the  central  square  or 
patio.  The  anger  and  cupidity  of  predatory  Indians  and 
the  force  of  the  elements  had  doubtless  begun  the  destruc- 
tion and  the  avarice  of  treasure  hunters  had  thoroughly 
completed  it.  Disappointed,  we  rode  down  to  our  new 
friend's  shack. 

Several  Catarina  Yumas  came  out  to  meet  us:  the  men 
armed  with  bows  and  arrows  and  muzzle-loading  shot-guns, 
the  women  bedaubed  with  red  and  blue  paint.  In  spite  of 
this  uncouth  ornamentation,  one  of  the  young  girls,  Anita 
by  name,  was  decidedly  pretty.  She  was  the  grand-daugh- 
ter of  our  friend  and,  with  him,  was  about  to  pose  before 
my  camera  when  an  Interfering  old  squaw  rushed  out  of  the 
shack  and  protested,  nor  would  offers  of  tobacco  and  sugar 
pacify  her.  So  bidding  the  Yumas  good-bye,  for  the  day 
was  well  advanced,  we  rode  away  and  made  camp  by  a 
water-hole  a  full  league  down  the  valley,  a  sufficient  distance 


A  MISSION  AND  SOME  INDIANS 


21 


to  satisfy  Juan,  who  had  his  doubts  of  the  Indians.  From 
the  different  shacks  we  saw,  I  should  judge  there  were  as 
many  as  seventy  or  eighty  of  the  tribe,  women  and  children 
included. 

That  evening,  before  the  camp-fire,  my  mind  wandered 
over  such  history  concerning  the  Mission  of  Santa  Catarina 
de  los  Yumas  as  I  had  at  various  times  picked  up  from 
Lower  California  records  and  mission  chronicles  and  in 
odd  corners.  While  old  **Mad  Anthony"  Wayne  was 
thrashing  the  rebellious  Indians  out  in  the  region  that  later 
became  the  President-producing  State  of  Ohio,  Governor 
Arrilliga,  then  Spanish  ruler  of  Baja  California,  was  ex- 
ploring this  country,  that  is  still  a  wilderness,  in  search 
of  a  place  where  he  could  establish  a  mission  and  a  presidio 
to  serve  as  a  base  for  more  extended  operations.  Imme- 
diately thereafter  the  Dominican  Frailes,  Tomas  Valdellon 
and  Jose  Llorente,  founded  the  desired  mission,  giving  it 
the  name  of  Santa  Catarina  de  los  Yumas.  This  was  in 
1797.  At  that  time  there  were  fifteen  hundred  Indians 
about  Santa  Catarina ;  they  were  never  peaceful.  Even  the 
gentle  process  of  shipping  some  of  the  fiercer  families  to 
the  south  and  substituting  neophytes  from  other  missions 
was  of  no  avail.  Again  and  again  the  Indians  revolted 
against  the  control  of  the  missionaries.  Finally,  in  about 
1 840,  they  killed  or  drove  away  the  last  Fraile  and  set  fire 
to  so  much  of  the  mission  as  would  burn.  Santa  Catarina 
was  the  last  of  the  long  list  of  clerical  foundations  estab- 
lished in  Lower  California. 

To  an  American  the  most  interesting  feature  of  this  mis- 
sion lies  in  the  fact  that  here,  in  1827,  came  James  O. 
Pattie,  the  first  if  not  the  only  American  to  visit  this  portion 
of  the  Peninsula  and  leave  any  record  of  his  journey.  Pat- 
tie  was  a  Kentuckian;  in  company  with  his  father  and  sev- 
eral other  American  frontiersmen,  he  had  trapped  beaver 


2  2      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


along  the  Colorado  River,  then  wandered  inland  from  the 
head  of  the  Gulf  of  California,  enduring  frightful  hard- 
ships; finally,  the  party  chanced  upon  Santa  Catarina  Mis- 
sion, though  the  discovery  did  not  end  their  troubles.  Close 
in  the  wake  of  the  Patties  came  the  fur  traders,  linking 
El  Camino  Real  with  the  Sierra  trail  of  the  Hudson  Bay 
trappers. 

While  pictures  of  the  past  unfolded  before  my  mind,  my 
two  friends,  crowded  warmly  near  me,  slumbered  deeply 
and  Juan,  in  a  mass  of  blankets,  was  fast  asleep  under 
a  protecting  clump  of  brush  close  by;  and  the  fire  had 
burned  low.  The  sharp  night  air  recalled  me  to  the  pres- 
ent, and  hastily  piling  wood  on  the  coals,  I  plunged  into 
the  blankets  and  fell  asleep.  But  the  coyote  chorus  had 
made  sleep  difiicult  for  a  week  past  and  this  particular  night 
it  seemed  as  though  the  puppies  from  forty  kennels  had 
surrounded  our  camp  with  the  firm  intention  of  testing  their 
lungs;  for  coyote  *'yipping*'  resembles  the  whimpering  of 
many  puppies  rather  than  the  efforts  of  a  serious  minded 
dog.  What  with  this  disturbing  chorus,  the  extreme  cold, 
and  my  vain  efforts  to  keep  a  fire  burning,  the  long  hours 
brought  me  slight  repose.  At  midnight,  I  plainly  heard  the 
rush  of  many  hurrying  feet  to  the  neighboring  water-hole, 
the  whinneying  of  horses  and  the  half-suppressed  oaths  of 
vaqueros.  At  daylight,  to  our  consternation  we  found  that 
all  our  animals,  save  a  lone  riding  mule  tied  close  to  camp, 
were  gone. 

With  one  man  guarding  camp,  the  rest  of  us  made  search 
for  the  strays.  I  was  five  miles  to  the  east,  trying  to  hold 
my  carbine  in  numb  fingers,  when  the  snow  came  down 
blindingly.  At  the  same  time  I  discovered  that  the  tracks, 
which  I  had  been  following,  belonged  to  a  bunch  of  strange 
mules.  With  the  snow  in  my  eyes  and  brush  and  cacti  hin- 
dering my  advance,  it  was  no  play  finding  camp,  but  when 


A  MISSION  AND  SOME  INDIANS 


I  staggered  in,  chilled  and  bleeding,  I  learned  from  my 
companions  that  all  the  animals  had  been  located,  except 
Cabeza.  The  poor  creatures,  fresh  from  the  lowlands,  had 
kept  moving  throughout  the  night,  despite  their  hobbles,  in 
frenzied  effort  to  avoid  freezing. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  secured  the  lost  one.  After 
stampeding  our  animals  in  the  night  the  Catarinas  had  cut 
out  Cabeza  from  the  bunch,  obliterated  his  tracks  by  haul- 
ing brush  over  them,  led  him  a  distance  through  a  brook 
and  finally  driven  him,  with  three  of  their  own,  to  a  brushy 
hiding  place  in  the  rear  of  one  of  their  shacks,  where  they 
carefully  tied  him;  one  of  the  Indians,  armed  with  an  old 
.44  caliber  rifle,  had  mounted  guard  while  the  others  took 
turns  watching  our  movements.  But  Juan,  versed  in  the 
lore  of  trails,  was  not  long  deceived  by  these  artifices,  and, 
following  close  in  his  wake,  we  took  Cabeza  and  asked  no 
questions.  Whether  the  Indians  were  bent  on  theft,  or 
were  scheming  to  hold  the  mule  until  we  should  offer  five 
pesos  (dollars)  for  their  assistance  in  finding  him,  were 
questions  we  did  not  try  to  decide.  After  all,  there  was 
some  sense  in  lugging  about  the  mighty  six-shooters  which 
we  had  strapped  on  after  leaving  Ensenada — and  I  am  quite 
sure  that  the  old  Frailes  knew  what  they  were  about  when 
they  tied  the  Catarinas  to  trees, — even  if  the  **trees''  were 
thorny  shrubs, — and  walloped  'em.  A  few  lusty  wallops 
these  days  would  be  improving. 

That  night  we  spent  in  the  same  camp,  though  the  falling 
snow  had  changed  its  appearance.  The  following  day  the 
earth  was  well  covered;  Juan,  who  was  half  sick,  grumbled 
his  Mexican  dislike  of  the  cold;  one  of  my  friends  sug- 
gested sending  to  the  High  Sierras  of  Upper  California  for 
snow  skis  and  the  other  rallied  me  about  bringing  them 
Into  tropical  Lower  California.  The  maguay  plants,  the 
choUas,  ocotillas,  tunas  and  all  the  rest  of  the  cacti  family 


24      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


seemed  to  eye  us  from  their  untropical  drapery  with  resent- 
ful expressions.  We  broke  camp  in  the  early  morning  light 
and  took  a  southeasterly  course.  In  order  to  keep  active 
our  circulations,  we  soon  found  it  necessary  to  dismount 
and  proceed  on  foot.  The  jack  rabbits,  also,  considered  it 
advisable  to  keep  on  the  move.  In  sixteen  minutes  along  a 
single  stretch  of  mesa  land,  I  counted  twenty-six  of  these 
long-eared  fellows.  At  Alamitos  (Little  Cottonwoods) ,  a 
small  water-hole,  the  ice  was  so  thick  that  our  thirsty  mules 
were  at  a  loss  as  to  how  to  obtain  a  drink  until  one  of  them, 
a  jaunty  little  animal,  suddenly  smashed  in  the  ice  before 
her  with  quick  stamps  of  her  forefeet,  a  shrewd  procedure 
which  the  others  promptly  imitated.  That  evening  I  found 
that  quail  which  we  had  killed  during  the  forenoon  were 
frozen  stiff  so  that  they  broke  apart  like  brittle  wood.  How- 
ever, we  were  far  from  the  ladrones,  and  in  consequence 
slept  peacefully,  despite  the  cold. 

Though  this  proved  merely  my  introduction  to  the  Cata- 
rina  Yumas,  intervening  adventures  must  be  narrated  be- 
fore I  relate  my  subsequent  experiences  at  their  rancheria. 


CHAPTER  II 


MOUNTAIN  SHEEP.* 


ATE  one  afternoon,  a  week  after  our  New  Year's 


Day  experience  with  the  Yumas,  Juan  and  the 


youngest  of  our  party  were  high  up  among  the 
mountain  peaks  while  Lawrence,  my  other  compatriot,  and 
I  were  riding  along  the  sandy  floor  of  an  immense  arroyo. 
In  places  the  surface  glistened  in  unbroken  whiteness,  then 
again  pale  desert  pines,  thorny  mesquit  and  verdant  palo 
verde  rose  from  the  sandy  bed,  making  fair  gathering  places 
for  great  flocks  both  of  the  valley  quail  and  their  dove-col- 
ored desert  cousins.  But  our  eyes  gave  small  heed  to  these 
immediate  surroundings;  they  were  raised  to  the  lofty  red 
and  copper  colored  ridges  that  rose  sheer  above  either  side 
of  the  floor  of  the  arroyo.  Lawrence  was  mounted  on 
Pedro  Ximenez.  Cabeza  de  Vaca  bore  me  along  and  we 
gave  our  steeds  their  heads.  We  were  desperately  anxious 
for  the  sight  of  mountain  sheep  and  our  attention  was  not 
to  be  wasted  on  anything  else. 

Students  of  natural  history,  wise  hunters,  and  close  ob- 
servers of  museum  specimens  will  smile  when  I  state  that 
the  southern  big  horn  or  mountain  sheep  has  no  wool  and 
is  not  white.  Nevertheless,  I  make  the  direct  statement 
for  the  benefit  of  those  not  coming  under  any  of  the  above 
classes,  for  I  have  not  forgotten  how,  on  my  first  hunt  for 
mountain  sheep,  I  searched  the  surrounding  cliffs  for  a 
woolly  white  animal  with  big  curling  horns,  and  how,  when 


*  Reproduced,  in  part,  from  the  Sunset  Magazine  of  October,  1907. 

25 


26      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


I  finally  saw  a  light  dun-colored  creature,  I  would  have  al- 
lowed it  to  escape  as  a  deer  that  was  in  too  steep  a  place  to 
bother  with  had  not  its  immense  curling  horns  suddenly 
come  into  view.  And  why  not?  Do  not  all  ordinary,  re- 
spectable sheep  have  wool?   And  aren't  they  white? 

For  several  hours  we  had  ridden  along  with  no  sight  of 
our  quarry.  Once,  I  exclaimed  at  sight  of  what  seemed 
to  be  a  man  standing  on  a  jagged  peak,  a  half  mile  above 
us,  but  the  **man"  shufflled  uneasily,  then  spreading  out  a 
pair  of  giant  wings  floated  majestically  away,  advising  our 
astonished  eyes  that  we  were  in  the  land  of  the  mighty 
condor.  Other  than  this  we  had  advanced  with  no  incident 
or  sound  save  the  dull  steady  break  of  the  sand  beneath 
the  small  feet  of  our  mules.  Cabeza  kept  me  in  the  lead, 
perhaps  fifty  steps  or  more,  and  I,  forgetting  even  to  scan 
the  cliffs,  was  feeling  compunction  because  my  companion 
had  ventured  hundreds  of  miles,  at  my  suggestion,  in  the 
hope  of  killing  a  big  horn,  and  a  week's  hard  hunting  had 
not  even  given  him  a  sight  of  one. 

'Took,  look!    On  the  ridge  to  the  left." 

I  looked,  and  slid  over  the  right  side  of  my  saddle,  haul- 
ing my  carbine  from  its  saddle  scabbard  as  I  went  and 
jerking  loose  Cabeza's  hair  picket-rope.  My  meditations 
were  ended.  Silhouetted  against  the  sky-line,  a  mountain 
sheep  was  ambling  peaceably  along  the  distant  ridge. 

As  my  companion's  sharp  eyes  had  discovered  the  game, 
I  waited  until  his  big  .40-. 8 2  had  said  the  first  word;  then 
I  turned  loose  with  my  .30-.30.  Mr.  Ram  paused  and 
gazed  in  questioning  attitude  down  at  us,  then  calmly  con- 
tinued his  business  of  going  somewhere.  As  though  an- 
gered at  such  uncomplimentary  composure  our  rifles  barked 
sharply  in  unison,  but  our  target  seemed  in  nowise  disturbed 
thereat.  Where  were  our  bullets  striking?  I  wondered, 
taking  a  long  aim  and  figuring  the  distance  at  something 


Upper  entrance  to  Arroyo  Grande 


MOUNTAIN  SHEEP 


less  than  four  hundred  yards.  I  blazed  away  and  heard 
the  .40-.82  at  my  left  sending  out  its  message.  Again  the 
ram  paused,  gazing  fixedly  into  the  distance  before  him. 
Such  unconcern!  Suddenly  the  outlined  figure,  the  curling 
horns,  the  back-line  and  the  design  of  the  legs — for  all  the 
world  like  pen  and  ink  strokes  against  the  sky,  struck  me  as 
ridiculously  like  one  of  Gellett  Burgess's  ''goups''  and  I 
burst  out  laughing.  Were  we  shooting  at  an  animated 
"goup"? 

At  this  stage  Lawrence  swore,  I  believe.  Don't  blame 
him  either,  if  he  did,  for  his  big  rifle,  sighted  for  five  hun- 
dred yards,  had  thrown  up  the  loose  earth  ten  feet  below 
the  big-horn.  With  the  rising  of  the  slight  puff  of  dust, 
the  sky-line  swallowed  up  our  target  and  the  whole  experi- 
ence might  have  been  a  dream  except  for  two  neat  little 
piles  of  empty  rifle  cartridges,  fifteen  in  all,  for  which  we 
were  responsible. 

We  rode  on  strangely  cheered  and  expectant — and  rally- 
ing ourselves. 

An  hour  later  my  companion's  voice  again  aroused  me; 
this  time  it  was  hoarse  with  excitement. 

*'G-glor-ry,"  he  cried,  'look  to  the  right!" 

I  looked,  and  as  long  as  hunting  blood  flows  In  my  veins 
I  shall  not  forget  the  thrilling  sight  I  saw.  There,  on  a 
spur  of  the  main  ridge,  assembled  side  by  side,  were  three — •> 
four — seven  big  mountain  sheep,  their  great  ram  heads  In- 
clined slightly  sidewlse  as  they  curiously  studied  us. 

**0n,  quick,  to  that  mesquit  ahead!  Don't  stop,  don't  let 
them  know  that  we  see  them,"  I  continued,  turning  half  in 
the  saddle  so  that  my  voice  would  carry,  In  an  undertone, 
to  my  companion  a  hundred  steps  back  of  me. 

A  slowly  passing  moment  brought  us  to  cover  In  the 
middle  of  the  arroyo.  In  an  Instant  I  was  stretched  on  the 
sand,  behind  the  mesquit,  carbine  In  hand.   Then  Lawrence 


28      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


crouched  by  me.  There  was  neither  laughing  nor  swearing 
now:  wondering  admiration,  tense  excitement,  cold  steadi- 
ness, too,  if  you  please.  Appreciation  of  the  moment  came 
to  us  both :  rarely  is  it  given  one  to  watch,  face  to  face,  the 
mountain  sheep  in  his  wild  home.  There  they  stood;  they 
had  seen  us,  they  were  disturbed,  yet  they  remained  im- 
movable, statuesque,  seven  great  rams. 

''Oh,  Lord!    Look  at  that  giant  to  the  right." 

*'Yes,  and  see  the  middle  fellow,"  I  gasped  back. 

''See  'em  all,"  responded  Lawrence. 

I  glanced  down  my  rifle  barrel.  The  light  was  failing 
and  I  could  just  see  the  great  rams  over  my  white  bead. 

"The  middle  one  is  mine,"  I  muttered,  "you  can  take 
your  whopper  at  the  right." 

We  stretched  out  at  ease  on  the  sand  and  with  left  fore- 
arms raised,  gripped  firmly  our  rifle  barrels  and  looked 
through  their  rear  sights. 

"I  can  hardly  see,"  whispered  my  companion  doubtfully, 
"and  if  we  miss,  they'll  slide  over  that  ridge  at  the  first  shot 
and  be  off.  Suppose  we  camp  here  until  morning  and  then 
creep  'round  that  ridge  and  bag  'em?" 

The  light  was  beastly  dim  and  there  was  good  sense  in 
my  phlegmatic  companion's  suggestion.  Left  to  myself, 
doubtless  I  would  have  blazed  away  and  missed.  Full  fifteen 
minutes  the  sheep  stood  motionless  before  us,  a  noble  sight 
for  anyone,  sportsman  or  not;  great  independent  creatures 
limned  against  the  shadowy  sky-line,  watching,  doubting. 
Then  suddenly  their  leader,  the  big  ram  at  the  right,  gave 
his  command  and  with  the  precision  of  a  cavalry  squadron, 
all  wheeled  about,  in  their  retreat  showing  their  white 
rumps  and  crowding  together  like  an  alarmed  flock  of 
domestic  sheep. 

Seven  big  mountain  sheep  just  over  the  ridge  from  us. 
Seven  big  rams  to  sleep  with  just  a  ridge  between  them  and 


MOUNTAIN  SHEEP 


29 


our  rifles,  and  in  the  morning —  Quietly  we  unsaddled  and 
tied  our  mules  to  a  palo  verde ;  in  great  content  they  began 
nibbling  the  brittle  branches.  Silently  we  each  ate  a  piece 
of  hard-tack. 

'Xawrence,  I  shall  not  kill  over  two  of  them.  Tm  no 
butchen" 

'*Two  are  all  I  want." 

We  stretched  on  the  sand  and  pulled  our  saddle  blank- 
ets over  us.  It  was  only  6:15  P.M.,  but  there  was  nothing 
to  do. 

**Say,  do  you  know  that  William  Walker  led  his  filibus- 
ters down  this  arroyo  on  his  way  to  Sonora  in  1854?'' 
*^Seven  big  rams — " 

*'And  do  you  know,'*  I  continued  perseveringly,  ^'that 
there  are  ancient  hieroglyphics  near  here  made  by  some 
prehistoric  people?'' 

^^Seven  big  rams  and  a  giant  at  the  right — " 
We  found  sleep,  eventually.  I  dreamed  that  I  was  the 
seventh  son  of  a  seventh  son  and  was  driving  seven  moun- 
tain rams  into  a  corral  built  in  the  White  House  grounds. 
Then  it  was  the  gray  half  light  of  morning  and  two  coyotes, 
sitting  on  their  haunches  a  few  yards  distant,  were  quietly 
surveying  us.  I  poked  Lawrence  and  he  murmured, 
sleepily, 

*Well,  well,  seven  big  rams  and  a  giant — " 
But  search  as  we  might  we  never  again  saw  those  seven 
big  rams.  However,  that  evening  at  camp  we  partook  of 
mountain  sheep.  Juan  and  the  youngest  member  of  our 
party,  had  had  their  overnight  experiences,  too.  Said  the 
succesful  one: 

*'Juan  was  tracking  and  I  was  admiring  the  world  when 
I  saw  a  whole  barn-yard  of  sheep — fifteen!  Say,  I  counted 
them  straight,  too.  I  pulled  up  my  rifle,  forgot  about  my 
rear  sights,  aimed  at  the  whole  bunch  and  missed  'em  all — 


30        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


and  kept  on  missing  about  seven  times.  Then  we  turned  off 
in  another  direction  and  by-and-by  we  saw  another  barn- 
yard full  and  I  got  this  ram.  Juan  and  I  cooked  and  ate  a 
piece  right  away.  It's  a  cross  between  a  juicy  mutton  chop 
and  a  fine  thick  porterhouse  steak.  Have  a  hunk — you 
fellows  look  blue." 


CHAPTER  III 


A  PARSON,  A  WRONG  DIRECTION  AND  MORE  INDIANS 

N  the  22nd  day  of  January,  1906,  just  a  month  after 


our  entry  into  Mexico,  I  regretfully  bade  my 


American  friends  good-bye.  The  rounds  of  busi- 
ness in  northern  civilization  demanded  their  attention;  the 
southern  wilderness  claimed  mine.  Accordingly,  the  sheep 
hunt  concluded,  we  parted  at  the  little  mining  pueblo  of 
Alamo,  ten  miles  west  of  Santa  Catarina  Mission. 

As  they  spurred  northward,  the  faithful  Juan  riding  in 
the  lead,  the  chill  of  utter  isolation  fell  upon  me:  there, 
passing  from  sight,  were  all  my  companions  and  even  the 
familiar  mules,  excepting  the  smallest  in  the  train,  the 
usually  impassive  Pedro  Ximenes.  Tied  to  a  post,  the  poor 
brute  was  now  braying  disconsolately.  Lonely  and  depressed, 
I  at  once  turned  my  attention  exclusively  to  the  work  before 
me,  the  wisest  course  for  anyone  in  such  a  frame  of  mind. 
Obviously,  pack  animals  and  a  muleteer  were  my  first  re- 
quirements. Accordingly,  I  proceeded  to  make  general  in- 
quiry for  three  burros  and  a  man,  for  with  burros  rather 
than  valuable  mules  I  trusted  to  escape  the  avaricious  atten- 
tion of  such  as  might  not  be  possessed  of  a  law-abiding  ap- 
preciation of  the  rights  of  property.  As  the  news  spread 
that  the  Americano  was  desirous  of  purchasing  for  cash 
three  large  burros  and  engaging  a  mozo  to  journey  with  him 
down  the  length  of  the  Peninsula,  Alamo  rippled  with  ex- 
citement. Every  Mexican  in  the  pueblo  at  once  offered  me 
some  wonderful  animal  at  a  more  wonderful  figure,  arwi 


32        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


several  expressed  a  willingness  to  receive  wages  from  me. 
Finally  an  array  of  burros  and  burro  men  assembled  about 
the  inevitable  plaza  and  with  an  American  parson,  an  Eng- 
lish ^'remittance  man,"  and  an  Italian  merchant,  acting  as 
judges  at  what  the  Englishman  facetiously  called  my  ''burro 
show,''  I  picked  out  a  fine  young  gray  burro,  shortly  christ- 
ened Cortez,  and  a  sharp-eyed  brown  wood-carrier.  This 
latter  chap  I  made  my  bell  burro  and  named  Coronado. 
My  judges  had  pointed  out  the  strong  points  of  these  bur- 
ros; let  him  who  would  be  possessed  of  a  good  burro  keep 
them  in  mind,  viz. :  no  obvious  tendencies  toward  balking, 
backs  covered  by  unbroken  hides  and  thick  hair,  good  teeth, 
sturdy  shoulders,  stocky  build,  and  long  hoofs — for,  burros 
being  unshod,  the  short-hoofed  fellows  soon  become  tender- 
footed. 

Meantime,  and  in  short  order,  I  engaged  successively  an 
Italian  and  three  Mexicans  to  serve  as  my  mozo.  The 
Italian  and  two  of  the  Mexicans  grew  faint-hearted  at  the 
prospective  dangers  of  the  trip  and  the  third  Mexican  was 
restrained  from  departing  by  his  creditors.  Then  the 
American  parson  of  my  "burro  show,"  a  Texan  of  some 
thirty  years  of  age,  came  to  my  rescue.  He  gave  his  name 
as  "Ben"  and  stated  that  he  would  be  glad  to  enter  my  ser- 
vice for  three  months.  By  way  of  references  he  explained 
that  while  he  had  passed  his  early  life  as  a  clergyman  in 
Texas,  for  the  past  seven  years  he  had  been  a  muleteer  in 
Chihuahua  and  Sonora.  As  there  was  no  question  about 
his  being  "up"  on  burros,  I  engaged  him  on  the  spot,  though 
the  prospect  of  having  a  parson  in  steady  service  seemed  a 
trifle  novel.  I  did  not  pry  into  his  reasons  for  leaving  his 
pastorate,  such  questions  not  being  polite  near  the  Border. 

In  fact,  in  the  midst  of  my  search  for  a  man,  a  tall  Irish- 
man took  me  aside  and,  in  an  undertone,  said  that  he  would 
be  glad  to  make  the  trip,  provided  the  wages  be  raised 


A  PARSON  AND  A  WRONG  DIRECTION 


33 


somewhat.  ''Quite  easy  for  you,  sir/'  he  parenthesized; 
and  then,  with  a  look  of  cunning  appreciation,  continued, 
''It's  the  ridge  trail  that  I  can  show  you,  and  down  that 
we  can  slip  widout  maten'  a  sowl.  Sure,"  and  here  he  gave 
a  wink,  "youVe  heard  of  Brown,  the  Los  Angeles  cashier! 
Well,  'twas  me  that  took  him  safely  trou  to  the  port  of 
Santa  Rosali',  where  he  got  a  ship,  an'  I  can  pull  you  trou 
over  the  same  route."  Respectfully  declining  this  kindly 
offer,  I  took  up  with  my  parson.  By  the  way  in  which  he 
hustled  about  and  secured  for  me  two  pack-saddles  with 
accompanying  harness  and  alforcas  (raw-hide  panniers),  I 
am  convinced  that  "Ben's"  parishioners  must  have  taken 
pride  in  his  energy.  To  me  it  was  a  great  delight  after  the 
dilatory  manner  of  the  natives.  One  stout,  ragged  looking 
Mexican  whom  I  endeavored  to  engage  to  make  a  harness 
for  one  of  my  pack-saddles,  calmly  gave  his  half-rolled 
cigarette  an  added  twist,  leaned  back  against  his  adobe  and 
soberly  remarked  that  he  "didn't  have  the  time."  Un- 
questionably, the  Mexican  eight-hour  law  provides  that 
every  able-bodied  man  shall  desist  from  labor  eight  hours 
in  the  middle  of  every  day! 

"Ben"  was  very  anxious  to  be  upon  the  trail.  So  was  I. 
At  his  suggestion,  in  place  of  delaying  until  I  could  secure  a 
third  burro  for  him  to  ride,  we  postponed  that  matter  until 
a  convenient  burro  ranch  came  In  our  way.  Accordingly, 
leaving  Alamo  at  noon  of  the  22nd,  we  climbed  Into  the 
chemise-clad  mountains  at  the  south,  being  attended,  through 
the  courtesy  of  the  Correo  or  Postmaster  of  Alamo,  by  a 
Mexican  horseman  as  temporary  guide.  Half  a  league 
brought  us  to  a  high  ridge  where  the  Mexican  left  us,  after 
pointing  In  a  due  southerly  direction  and  exclaiming  ^^Sur^ 
sury  The  man  was  quite  picturesque  and  gave  his  direc- 
tions In  a  dramatic  manner.  It  had  seemed  to  me  that 
southwest  was  more  nearly  the  proper  course  for  us,  but 


34        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


the  positive  **Sur,  sur"  was  convincing  and  southward  we 
turned,  following  the  trail  down  a  steep  slope  and  through 
a  succession  of  small  valleys  where  the  heavy  growth  of 
grass,  the  delightful  red  berries,  the  fine  live-oaks,  the  dense 
chemise,  the  scurrying  flocks  of  quail  and  the  frequent  deer 
tracks  took  my  thoughts  back  to  similar  scenes  in  those 
northern  mountains  made  familiar  to  all  by  Stevenson's 
*^Silverado  Squatters." 

On  the  ensuing  day,  to  our  regret,  we  left  a  fairly  good 
trail  bearing  southwesterly,  doubtless  to  the  olive-shaded 
ruins  of  the  old  Dominican  Mission  of  Santo  Tomas  de 
Aquina,  and  followed  a  fainter  trail  which  led  in  the  south- 
erly direction  indicated  by  the  Mexican.  Our  course,  after 
taking  us  into  lofty  mountains  from  which  we  could  see  the 
distant  ocean  to  the  westward,  led  down  abruptly  to  a  deep 
canyon  where  there  was  an  old  shack,  thatched  with  tule 
grass,  and  other  evidences  of  by-gone  Indian  occupation. 
A  goodly  stream  of  water  headed  near  the  shack,  and  fol- 
lowing along  the  stream  for  a  league  we  made  camp  in  an 
old  brush  corral,  shaded  by  a  noble  group  of  live-oaks  and 
sycamores.  The  grass  was  thick  and  the  spot  ideal  for 
camping.  In  addition  to  his  ministerial  experiences,  ^'Ben" 
had  cooked  at  one  time  in  a  restaurant  from  which  he  had 
been  invited  to  sever  his  connections  because  of  the  amount 
of  fuel  which  he  persisted  in  burning.  Though  such  ex- 
travagant habits  would  have  been  as  reprehensible  on  the 
desert  as  in  the  restaurant,  they  were  not  objectionable  in 
the  corral,  where  for  many  seasons  the  dead  limbs  had  been 
falling  in  undisturbed  heaps.  His  cooking  operations,  in 
consequence,  succeeded  admirably.  One  great  bonfire  threw 
its  reflections  upon  the  sides  of  the  deep  canyon,  while  over 
a  smaller  fire  most  appetizing  dishes  simmered  and  broiled 
to  the  delight  of  our  anxious  appetites.  Even  when  sleep 
claimed  us,  a  willow  tripod  arrangement  of  **Ben's"  manu- 


A  PARSON  AND  A  WRONG  DIRECTION 


35 


facture  held  suspended  above  the  coals  a  slow  boiling  pot 
of  beans.  Quite  undisturbed  by  the  fact  that  we  knew  not 
just  where  we  were,  we  slept  soundly  and  entirely  without 
forebodings  for  the  morrow. 

On  the  24th  we  continued  down  the  arroyo,  passing  an- 
other deserted  corral  and  arriving  shortly  at  a  junction  of 
two  canyons  below  which  the  walls  of  the  main  canyon  be- 
came extremely  precipitous,  while  the  stream  pursued  its 
course  over  a  rocky  bed  which  dropped  in  places  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  render  the  course  impassable  for  our  animals. 
iTo  our  delight  we  found  horse  tracks  leading  high  up  to 
the  left.  These  we  followed.  Whoever  guided  that  horse 
must  have  partaken  of  the  loco  weed  or  have  carried  under 
his  belt  a  large  amount  of  mescal,  for  the  tracks  led  us 
through  the  densest  chemise  and  deep  down  the  most  appal- 
ling declivities. 

For  a  day  and  a  half,  each  time  that  I  had  looked  from 
the  height  of  Pedro  Ximenez,  back  upon  my  brave  train 
of  pack  burros,  with  Coronado's  bell  tinkling  so  cheerfully 
and  with  Ben  trudging  along  in  the  wake  of  the  proces- 
sion, my  heart  had  throbbed  with  all  the  pride  of  a  railway 
magnate  watching  his  express  trains  whizzing  along  their 
double  track  road-beds.  Now  I  passed  through  the  anxie- 
ties of  a  railway  president  in  flood  season  or  in  time  of 
rebate  investigation.  Again  and  again  the  alforcas  caught 
in  the  brush  and  the  burros  were  ''hung  up,"  to  the  detri- 
ment of  Ben's  anti-swearing  resolutions,  for  that  worthy, 
having,  on  the  first  day,  observed  my  swearing  proclivities 
were  not  keen,  had  announced  his  determination  to  return 
to  the  pious  language  employed  in  the  days  of  his  pastorate 
in  southwestern  Texas.  Eventually,  Coronado  slipped  and 
fell,  not  through  any  fault  of  his,  but  because  he  was  urged 
over  a  precipice  and  there  overbalanced  by  his  load.  Gather- 
ing his  small  feet  close  to  his  body,  down  he  rolled,  to  the 


36        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

bottom  of  the  gorge,  a  hundred  feet  below,  striking  with  a 
dull  thud  that  sent  shivers  through  me  at  the  thought  of 
broken  bones  and  ruined  impedimenta.  Yet,  after  I  had 
extricated  him  from  his  tangled  pack,  he  arose,  with  a  grunt, 
and  calmly  commenced  cropping  the  sedge  grass — but,  for 
all  his  calmness,  I  think  he  was  rather  vexed  at  us. 

Ben  and  I  stood  on  either  side  of  the  burro  and  looked  up 
at  the  precipices  about  us.  We  were  in  a  box  canyon  where 
we  seemed  buried  and  so  discouraged  did  we  feel  that  we 
fell  to  and  ate  a  good  lunch,  an  excellent  way  of  restoring 
a  man's  grit  and  increasing  his  resourcefulness.  In  this 
case  we  found  our  dismay  perceptibly  lessened  and,  by  the 
aid  of  ropes,  shortly  hauled  Coronado  up  the  further  side 
of  the  gorge. 

On  we  went  for  three  intense  hours,  breaking  and  hack- 
ing a  course  for  our  animals  through  the  dense  brush,  avoid- 
ing chollas  and  Spanish  bayonets,  our  eyes  on  the  burros  or 
searching  in  the  dead  leaves  for  tracks  of  that  horse.  Rid- 
ing was  out  of  the  question ;  I  was  on  foot  cutting  and  smash- 
ing a  way  for  the  animals  and  Ben  was  busied  in  widening 
the  passage  for  the  packs.  The  scenery  probably  was  grand 
— the  plain  at  Alamo  is  reputed  to  be  4,900  feet  above  the 
sea  level,  and  we  had  climbed  to  a  much  greater  altitude,  but 
I  had  no  time  for  scenery.  Cortez  took  his  turn  at  rolling, 
then,  in  company  with  Coronado  he  was  ''hung  up''  in  the 
brush.  A  jagged  limb  ripped  into  my  forearm,  breaking  off 
by  the  side  of  an  artery,  where  I  dared  not  extricate  it  for 
the  moment;  I  jammed  my  knee  against  the  thorny  ex- 
tremity of  a  maguay  leaf,  which  left  a  persistent  throbbing 
pain  in  the  knee-cap  as  a  consequence.  Neither  of  us  had 
anything  to  say,  but  we  both  felt  desperate,  and  it  would 
have  gone  hard  with  the  Mexican  who  gave  us  directions 
had  he  fallen  in  our  way. 

Meantime,  the  tracks  led  higher  up  into  the  sierras,  the 


A  PARSON  AND  A  WRONG  DIRECTION  37 


brush  giving  way  to  great  white  granite  boulders.  At  last, 
as  the  sun  was  setting  and  our  spirits  deeply  depressed,  we 
came  upon  the  fairest  scenery :  a  plain  well-used  trail!  Down 
this  we  joyfully  turned,  descending  toward  the  southwest. 
Hundreds  of  years  and  thousands  of  feet  must  have  passed 
over  that  trail,  for  it  was  worn  deep  into  the  granite  body  of 
the  mountain;  in  one  place  where  I  experimented  with  a 
tape,  the  trail  was  thirty-eight  inches  deep  in  the  rock. 
Exhilarated  in  spite  of  our  thorough  exhaustion,  we  hurried 
on,  noting  tracks  of  a  lion  mingled  with  those  of  barefooted 
Indians.  Finally  we  again  came  upon  our  water-course, 
now  grown  wider,  and  following  it  for  a  couple  of  miles, 
made  camp  on  the  sand  with  heavy  darkness  round  about. 
We  were  both  badly  used  up.  My  arms  and  knee  ached 
acutely,  and  Ben  also  was  subject  for  my  medicine  case,  with 
its  liniments  and  rolls  of  bandages.  In  addition,  beyond 
the  fact  that  we  were  among  the  spurs  of  San  Pedro  Martir 
Sierra,  we  did  not  know  where  we  were.  We  had  every 
reason  to  believe,  however,  that  we  were  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  some  Indian  rancheria,  though  of  the  possible  atti- 
tude of  its  inhabitants  toward  us  in  such  an  unchartered 
end  of  the  world  we  were  rather  dubious. 

On  the  morning  of  the  25th  we  were  so  stiff  that  only 
our  hearty  constitutions  enabled  us  to  move  forward.  Dur- 
ing the  night  a  lion  had  come  down  to  inspect  us,  marking 
up  the  sand  with  his  great  claws  within  twenty  paces  of 
camp,  for,  owing  to  the  probable  proximity  of  Indians,  we 
had  kept  no  camp  fire  burning.  Continuing  down  the  stream, 
we  shortly  crossed  a  small  irrigating  ditch,  and  beyond, 
upon  a  sandy  bench  of  perhaps  four  acres,  we  cam.e  abruptly 
upon  an  Indian  village. 

As  there  are  no  complete  maps  or  reports  of  the  interior 
of  Lower  California,  and  as  the  reputations  of  the  unvisited 
places  are  in  nerve-racking  accord  with  the  mystery  hanging 


38        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


over  the  entire  peninsula,  an  exciting  element  of  Lower  Cali- 
fornia exploration  exists  in  the  fact  that  the  explorer  never 
knows  what  he  may  find  at  any  turn  of  an  arroyo — and  it 
is  a  land  of  arroyos !  In  this  instance,  I  found  myself  sud- 
denly face  to  face  with  an  Indian  rancheria  of  half  a  dozen 
shacks  and  some  fifty  people,  and  what  treatment  to  expect 
was  beyond  me,  for  I  had  never  so  much  as  heard  of  the 
existence  of  an  Indian  village  in  this  particular  region. 

The  bucks,  garbed  in  a  doubtful  assortment  of  tatters, 
were  lounging  about  at  their  ease,  conversing  with  an  Indian 
traveler,  who  was  outward  bound  with  two  pack  burros, 
laden  with  wild  honey.  The  women  were  squatting  on  the 
ground  before  metate  stones,  a  few  crushing  corn,  but  the 
majority  reducing  to  powder  a  small  black  seed,  the  like 
of  which  is  usually  to  be  found  in  the  crops  of  wild  doves. 
Children  were  playing  about  in  absolute  nakedness,  the  boys 
practicing  with  stout  bows  and  reed  arrows.  The  babies  of 
the  village  were  in  the  care  of  the  young  girls,  who  carried 
them  at  their  sides,  the  youngsters  clinging,  with  mussy 
hands  and  straddling  legs,  to  their  comely  foster  mothers. 
They  were  a  healthy,  husky  looking  race  of  people,  not 
unlike  the  Catarina  Yumas  in  countenance  but  of  heavier 
physique.  Their  shacks,  also,  were  larger  and  more  sub- 
stantially put  together  than  those  of  my  ladrone  acquaint- 
ances. As  to  what  their  treatment  of  us  would  be  I  was 
uncertain.  Ben  muttered,  ^^Look  out."  We  proceeded  to 
do  so. 

The  traveler,  speaking  in  mongrel  Spanish,  informed  us 
that  they  were  Pais  Indians  (doubtless  the  same  as  the 
Pi-pis  of  the  Salada  and  Colentura  region  at  the  southwest) 
and  that  we  were  the  first  white  men  who  had  ever  come 
to  the  village.  Though  friendly  in  his  address,  he  voiced 
the  evident  wonder  of  the  village  by  inquiring  how  we  had 
ever  arrived  from  Alamo,  coming  from  the  direction  which 


A  PARSON  AND  A  WRONG  DIRECTION 


39 


we  had,  and  whether  we  were  prospectors.  Our  arrival 
certainly  created  the  confusion  supposedly  incident  to  the 
coming  of  first  whites:  the  naked  children  were  whisked 
away,  the  girls  fled,  the  squaws  became  silent  and  the  bucks 
looked  at  us  with  undisguised  curiosity.  A  broad  shoul- 
dered, strapping  fellow,  dressed  in  old  overalls,  tattered 
shirt,  high  peaked  Spanish  straw  sombrero,  and  wearing  a 
genial  expression  and  waving  Dundrearies,  seemed  to  be 
the  head  man.  Of  him  I  asked  permission  to  photograph 
the  village,  the  traveler  acting  as  interpreter.  At  first  the 
big  fellow  seemed  to  think  that  evil  lay  in  cameras,  but 
when  I  showed  him  an  Indian  picture  in  a  magazine  he 
grunted  a  smiling  assent,  and  entering  one  of  the  shacks 
conferred  over  the  matter  with  a  wizened  ancient,  who, 
judged  by  his  parchment  wrinkles,  might  have  been  a  con- 
frere of  Cortez.  The  ancient  proved  to  be  the  head  chief 
and  offered  no  objection  to  picture  taking. 

Meantime,  the  girls  had  reappeared  with  fresh  coats  of 
paint  on  their  faces  and  bandanas  coyly  arranged  upon  their 
heads.  If  picture-taking  was  in  order,  they  were  prepared. 
To  the  general  surprise,  the  ordeal  consumed  but  an  in- 
stant; then,  in  appreciation,  I  presented  the  big  fellow  with 
a  cup  of  Scotch  whiskey.  This  he  passed  over  to  the 
wrinkled  one,  who  after  downing  all  but  the  dregs,  smacked 
his  thin  lips  and  returned  the  cup  to  his  brawny  understudy. 
The  other  bucks  stood  by  and  smiled  half-heartedly  as  they 
watched  the  Scotch  disappearing.  They  didn't  get  a  taste ! 
Talk  about  regard  for  the  aged,  we  civilized  beings  are  not 
in  the  same  class  with  the  Pi-pis. 

Suddenly  the  head  chief  beckoned  me  to  him.  Already 
I  had  ostentatiously  swung  my  heavy  six-shooter  into  a 
prominent  position  and  I  approached  him  without  hesita- 
tion. It  seemed  that  my  green  riding  bags,  long  the  despair 
of  my  friends  and  the  delight  of  my  heart,  had  aroused  his 


40        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


covetousness.  Briefly  he  gave  me  to  understand  that  the 
weather  was  cold  and  he  was  thin;  that  the  trousers  would 
do  him  much  good,  while  at  my  age  they  were  unnecessary 
— pointing,  for  verification,  at  the  scantily  clad  young  bucks 
of  the  village  with  their  happy  smiles,  knife  belts  and 
guarachas.  At  this,  the  big  fellow  with  the  Dundrearies 
nodded  smiling  assent:  it  seemed  time  for  America  to  re- 
treat, and  with  hasty  adieux,  I  left  the  Pais  to  their  own 
resources,  grateful  to  escape  with  honors  of  war — and  my 
trousers,  or  with  my  trousers  and  without  the  honors  of 
war.  As  I  put  spurs  to  the  greatly  surprised  Pedro  Xime- 
nez,  I  turned  in  the  saddle  for  a  last  look  at  the  rancheria. 
All  that  I  observed  was  a  wizened  ancient,  following  along 
the  trail.  He  stooped  pitiably,  his  face  was  parchment 
wrinkles,  his  claw-like  hands  were  clasping  his  withered 
thighs  and  in  quivering  tones  he  called  after  me,  *'so  cold, 
so  very  cold." 

These  Indians  gather  wild  honey  and  raise  beans,  corn, 
grapes  and  melons  from  their  fertile  soil.  Adjoining  their 
village,  and  further  down  the  canyon,  there  were  signs 
which  indicated  that  in  some  earlier  day  there  had  been  a 
large  population  and  many  irrigated  fields  along  the  river- 
bottom.  The  Dominican  Friars  who  established  the  mis- 
sions about  the  northern  portions  of  Lower  California  left 
few  records  of  what  they  there  found  or  did,  but  in  one  of 
their  fragments  they  set  forth  that  the  Indians  of  San 
Vicente  Mission  were  '^unquiet,  proud  and  fickle";  that 
those  of  Santo  Tomas  and  Santa  Catarina  were  ^'quick- 
tempered,  treacherous,  warlike  and  very  diflficult  to  gov- 
ern"; that  the  Indians  of  Santa  Catarina  and  Santo  Tomas 
belonged  *'to  the  Yuma  family,"  and  that,  '*in  178 1  the 
Mission  of  San  Vicente  was  attacked  by  two  thousand 
Yumas  from  the  mountains  who  did  great  injury."  As  these 
Pais  are  within  striking  distance  of  each  of  these  three  mis- 


A  PARSON  AND  A  WRONG  DIRECTION 


41 


sions,  perhaps  in  those  old  days  they  were  possessed  of  the 
entire  combination  of  bad  qualities  named.  At  the  time  of 
my  visit,  however,  they  called  their  rancheria  Dolores  and 
were  preparing — men,  women  and  children — to  take  a  long 
trip  through  the  mountains  to  attend  Mass  at  Santa  Cata- 
rina  Mission. 

One  primitive  Indian  whom  we  met  below  the  village — 
he  wore  a  coat  and  a  belt  and  carried  his  guarachas  in  his 
hand — explained  that,  according  to  the  customs  of  the  Pais, 
a  buck  could  have  as  many  squaws  as  he  desired,  but  that 
one  squaw  could  do  the  requisite  work  and  raise  nine  chil- 
dren, which  was  a  sufficient  family  in  these  days.  Talk 
about  race  suicide!  This  chap  carried  an  ancient  repeating 
rifle,  which,  as  he  told  us,  had  suffered  eleven  distinct  breaks 
in  falling  over  a  cliff  and  beneath  a  pack  animal.  It  could 
only  be  discharged  after  wiring  tightly  in  place  all  its  parts. 
In  consequence,  this  red  man  was  hunting  with  a  single  cart- 
ridge in  the  barrel,  and  the  lever  and  magazine  wired  fast 
to  the  barrel  and  stock.  Probably,  however,  that  single  cart- 
ridge sufficed  for  the  killing  of  a  deer — or  of  some  wander- 
ing beef,  for  I  was  later  informed  that  the  Pais  were  sad 
ladrones  with  a  penchant  for  other  people's  cattle. 

Learning  from  the  hunter  of  the  whereabouts  of  an  agua 
caliente  or  hot  spring,  we  hastened  on,  passing  wonderful 
patches  of  wild  clover  and  dense  masses  of  pussy  willow. 
By  nightfall  we  reached  the  spring.  According  to  our  in- 
formant, who  with  other  Indians  of  the  rancheria  was  a 
stout  Christian — and  had  in  his  shack  some  china  marked 
**I.  H.  S." — this  agua  caliente  though  now  little  used,  had 
been  a  favorite  spot  of  the  old  Frailes.  Certainly,  some- 
body in  olden  times  had  protected  the  spring  with  a  well- 
built  stone  coping,  fifty  feet  by  ten,  but  sedges  and  tule  grass 
had  overgrown  all  save  a  nice  clear  pool,  ten  feet  by  six, 


42        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

and  wild  clover  ran  down  to  the  edge.  Such  a  camping 
spot! 

While  Ben  exercised  his  culinary  arts  before  a  large  fire 
in  the  shadows  of  the  cottonwoods,  I  tumbled  into  the  wel- 
come spring  and  came  forth  leaving  behind  me  pains  and 
stiffness,  dust  and  choUa  thorns.  Reclining  on  the  yielding 
clover,  before  the  companionable  fire,  a  savory  supper 
awaiting  my  keen  appetite,  close  at  hand  a  reliable  Indian 
trail  for  the  morrow,  a  contentment  stole  over  me  unknown 
in  the  narrow  life  against  which  I  had  become  an  insurgent. 
What  cared  I  even  though  directions  had  been  misleading 
and  Indians  numerous! 


CHAPTER  IV 


UNCLE  SAM's  lost  PROVINCE 

HERE  is  a  pathos  in  the  ruins  of  past  splendor  which 


casts  a  shadow  over  the  spirit  of  the  traveler, 


bringing  a  sobering  sense  of  the  transitory  works 
of  man.  Unconsciously,  I  gave  myself  completely  to  this 
feeling  as  I  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  casa  of  the  Senor  of  the 
Rancho  of  San  Vicente  late  one  January  afternoon  a  few 
short  days  after  my  visit  at  the  Rancheria  of  Dolores.  I 
had  just  come  in  from  a  stroll  among  the  ruins  of  the  ancient 
Mission  of  San  Vicente  and  was  content  to  dream  in  the 
mellow  light  of  the  dying  day. 

There  was  food  for  dreams.  On  the  summit  of  the  green 
hill  before  me  a  Spanish  fort  had  once  frowned  and  thou- 
sands of  Indians  had  vainly  assaulted  its  walls.  Now  a 
squirrel  crouched  low  in  play  on  the  ruined  bastions,  soldiers 
and  flag  were  gone  and  the  few  miserable  Indians  in  the 
hovel  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  had  welcomed  the  centavos 
which  a  passing  traveler  gave  them.  To  the  left  of  the  fort 
there  was  once  a  high  walled  cemetery  where  Castilian 
officers  and  cowled  Dominican  Padres  were  placed  at  rest 
with  the  pomp  of  other  days.  Now  the  walls  were 
broken,  the  graves  fallen  in,  and  garishly  modern  crosses, 
memorials  to  the  recent  dead,  crowded  from  sight  the 
neglected  tombs  of  early  dignitaries.  Below  the  fort  and  to 
the  right  of  the  cemetery  where,  amid  silent  ruins,  the  dove 
now  mourned  and  the  raven  cried  discordantly,  church  and 
monastery  and  Governor's  mansion  had  stood — structures. 


43 


44        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


some  of  them,  full  one  hundred  paces  in  length.  Below 
these  ruins,  in  the  great  moat-like  ditch  now  dry,  ob- 
structed, unused,  shrouded  by  tall  thickets  of  tuna  and  sugar- 
cane, there  had  flowed  in  those  earlier  days  a  stream,  pre- 
cious alike  for  irrigation  and  defense. 

Here  was  once  the  capital  of  La  Frontera,  the  frontier 
district.  Here  were  swollen  storehouses,  broad  fields,  great 
herds  of  cattle,  sheep  and  horses,  riches  that  now  are  gone, 
like  the  spirits  of  those  who  controlled  them,  for  naught  re- 
mains save  a  few  burros,  horses  and  cattle,  a  small  plot  of 
cultivated  land,  watered  by  a  feeble  stream,  an  atmosphere 
of  the  past — and  sombre,  crumbling  ruins  returning,  un- 
hindered, to  the  jealous  bosom  of  mother  earth  from  whence 
they  came.  Down  at  the  base  of  the  hill,  where  the  clover 
grows,  stands  a  sentinel  group  of  gnarled  and  blackened 
olive  trees,  ancients  guarding  the  ruins  above — yet,  when 
travellers  thronged  El  Camino  Real,  these  were  sturdy 
trees,  thick  of  foliage  and  generous  of  their  shade. 

While  my  thoughts  were  wandering,  and  I  yielded  to  the 
magic  languor  of  the  land,  there  came  to  mind  the  chroni- 
cles of  the  scribes  and  the  traditions  of  my  surroundings — 
and  close  on  their  heels  and  before  my  heavy  eyelids, 
imagination  unfolded  the  scenes  which  had  been  enacted  at 
San  Vicente  In  the  romantic  days  removed  so  far  from 
modern  life.  At  the  touch  of  the  wand  of  Fancy,  the  ruins 
disappeared  and  there  on  the  hill  stood  a  smoke-enshrouded 
fort  and  just  below  it  rose  the  Cross,  high  and  clear,  sur- 
mounting a  noble  mission.  Down  there,  amid  spreading 
tunas  and  young  olives,  I  saw  a  cloud  of  red  devils,  be- 
daubed with  war  paint,  decked  with  feathers  and  carrying 
bows  and  arrows  and  spears.  To  the  right,  by  the  river's 
curve,  are  more  of  the  same  ilk,  for  this  Is  the  year  1781 
and  the  Indians  from  the  Arroyo  Grande  and  L'Encentada, 
from  San  Miguel  and  Santo  Tomas,  their  feuds  forgotten, 


UNCLE  SAM'S  LOST  PROVINCE 


45 


have  gathered  to  sack  the  sturdy  young  Mission  of  San  Vi- 
cente Ferrer. 

Even  as  the  fiendish  war-whoop  rings  out,  the  scene 
changes:  the  flag  with  the  eagle  and  the  snake  now  floats 
over  the  fortress,  the  mission  granaries  have  grown  and  the 
fields  are  more  extensive,  for  nigh  half  a  century  has  passed. 
There,  at  a  stout  table  in  the  refectory,  sits  a  strange  figure, 
a  bronzed  young  man,  long  and  lean  of  frame,  with  high 
cheek-bones  and  aquiline  nose,  with  thin  lips  and  square  jaw; 
he  is  dressed  in  frayed  buckskins  and  his  worn  leggins  and 
moccasins  have  lost  many  of  their  beads.  Seated  facing 
him  are  two  Friars,  dark  robed  and  rotund.  The  elder  of 
the  Friars  is  speaking;  *^Be  of  good  cheer,  Senor  Pattie,'' 
he  says,  with  a  fatherly  smile,  **this  detention  is  but  a  for- 
mality of  the  Commandante;  he  is  a  strange  man  with  his 
regulations:  he  even  desires  us  to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance 
to  his  new  Government.''  The  young  man  half  rises,  ex- 
claiming, *^But  this  formality  that  he  imposes  upon  us  passes 
strangeness.  Ah,  had  not  the  Colorado  with  its  devilish 
tidal  current  wet  our  powder — aye,  or  that  treacherous  dog 
at  Santa  Catarina  not  deceived  us — there'd  be  many  in 
Purgatory  waiting  your  prayers  ere  we'd  been  prisoners." 
The  younger  Friar  waves  a  soothing  hand.  **Prisoners  and 
perhaps  heretics,  also,  you  are,  but  our  friends,  my  senor," 
says  he,  bringing  forth  a  dusty  wine  skin,  *^and  now  over 
this  bottle  which  is  of  the  best  port  which  our  good  brothers 
at  Santa  Rosalia  de  Mulege  prepare,  we  will  drink  to  Ken- 
tucky and  you  will  tell  us  of  those  amigos  of  yours,  Senors 
Bowie  and  David  Crockett." 

The  face  of  the  frontiersman  relaxes  from  its  harassed 
look  and  he  cries,  *'Aye,  that  I  will,  for  as  yet  you  are  my 
friends,  but  first  I  will  offer  a  bumper:  May  the  Mexicans 
at  San  Vicente  pay  with  their  blood  for  the  indignity  which 
they  have  put  upon  us  men  of  Kentucky." 


46        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

As  the  half-protesting  Friars  clink  their  glasses,  the  scene 
shifts:  the  Mission  is  unroofed,  the  fields  are  choked  with 
weeds.  Now  the  air  is  cleft  by  a  wild,  thrilling  cheer  that 
ends  in  a  barking  yell  and  a  double  line  of  tall  warriors 
rushes  up  towards  the  fort,  with  bayonets  fixed;  from  the 
port-holes  there  comes  a  murderous  blaze  of  fire  and  many 
of  the  tall  warriors  crumple  up  like  stalks  of  barley  before 
a  reaper:  the  line  hesitates,  and  instantly  the  leader,  a  small, 
wiry  man,  bared  rapier  in  hand,  turns  savagely  upon  them. 
**0h,  d — n  you,  d — n  you,  d — n,  you  all,"  he  shrieks  in  thin 
high-pitched  tones,  **do  you  mind  being  killed!  Dare  you 
stop,  dare  you  survive  and  return  to  Marysville,  to  Sacra- 
mento, to  San  Francisco — and  admit  that  Greasers  licked 
you?  Do  you  want  it  said  that  mothers  in  Tennessee  and 
Kentucky  whelp  white  livers,  mud-sills,  Yanks?"  He  rasps 
out  the  last  word  with  a  bitter  scream.  **Yanks,"  that  is 
what  stiffens  up  the  line.  Again  that  wild  barking  yell,  and 
the  little  man  and  his  tall  followers  sweep  up  the  hill  and 
over  the  walls,  carrying  their  two-starred  flag  into  the  fort- 
ress where  a  quarter  of  a  century  earlier  Pattie  of  Kentucky 
was  imprisoned,  for  this  is  February,  1854,  and  William 
Walker  and  his  filibusters  are  planning  the  slave  state  of 
Lower  Caliornia  and  Sonora. 

From  these  realms  of  other  days,  I  rouse  myself  with  a 
start,  for  the  Senor  of  San  Vicente  is  standing  before  me 
and  I  feel  that  I  have  been  dreaming.  *'Ten  thousand  In- 
dians gathered  from  the  mountains  once  to  assault  the  mis- 
sion over  yonder";  he  has  seen  me  staring  at  the  ruins  and 
he  waves  his  hand  toward  them,  *'and  now  on  the  whole 
Peninsula  there  is  not  a  quarter  that  number."  I  now  as- 
sent, and  he  continues:  *^Once  your  people  fought  my  people 
here,  but  your  country  did  not  approve."  I  assented  and  he 
adds,  '*And  once  Mexicans  fought  Mexicans  near  the  fort, 
but  I  do  not  know  what  it  was  about."    I  nod  a  third  time : 


UNCLE  SAM'S  LOST  PROVINCE 


47 


how  truly  his  closing  statement  would  apply  to  most  wars? 
and  then,  for  conversation's  sake,  remark,  ^^Tm  going  to 
ride  my  mule  the  length  of  the  peninsula  even  to  San  Jose 
del  Cabo." 

^^SiF^  he  exclaims  in  surprise,  *^Baja  California  por 
tierra/^ 

My  Latin  comes  to  the  aid  of  my  faulty  Spanish  and  I 
mutter  to  myself,  ''Lower  California  Overland,''  aloud  I 
say,  ^*Si,  sehor,  Baja  California  por  tierra/^  and  shaking 
his  head  he  murmurs,  ''Very  far,  senor,  very  far."  Then 
he  amazes  me,  by  adding,  "I  have  lived  at  beautiful  San 
Jose  del  Cabo.  There,  too,  you  will  find  a  site  called  San 
Vicente  and  there,  as  here,  your  people  fought  my  people, 
only  there  your  people  were  nearly  overcome.  But  that 
battle  was  in  a  regular  war." 

"Yes?"  I  answered,  my  curiosity  all  agog,  for  then  I  knew 
not  how  Uncle  Sam  twice  lost  the  Peninsula  of  Lower  Cali- 
fornia. 

Historians  have  an  unfortunate  faculty  of  omitting  many 
interesting  passages  from  their  chronicles.  Thus,  in  their 
accounts  of  the  war  between  Mexico  and  the  United  States, 
they  make  no  record  of  the  Spartan-like  defense  of  Chapul- 
tepec  by  the  cadets  of  the  Mexican  Military  Academy — 
they  gave  their  blood,  every  boy  of  them,  in  heroic  sacrifice 
to  their  country.  Neither  do  the  chroniclers  mention  the 
fierce  engagements  in  Lower  California  between  the  United 
States  Marines  and  the  New  York  Volunteers  on  the  one 
side  and  the  native  Californlans  and  their  Yaqui  allies  on 
the  other,  and  yet  the  unfortunate  conflict  furnished  no 
finer  evidence  of  bravery.  At  Chapultepec  there  is  a 
monument  to  the  cadets,  and  grim  war  records  attest  the 
frightful  losses  suffered  by  the  American  regiments  which 
finally  swept  over  the  bodies  of  the  young  heroes;  but  tradi- 
tion and  half-forgotten  archives  alone  bear  testimony  to 


48        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


the  stirring  events  in  Lower  California — for  the  chapter 
ends  with  Uncle  Sam's  surrender  of  Lower  California ! 

The  messages  and  private  journal  of  President  Polk 
throw  a  white  light  on  the  Mexican  War;  personal 
memoirs  of  the  volunteers  supplement  these  writings.  The 
truth  about  the  episode  is  that  the  occupation  of  the  Penin- 
sula by  the  United  States  forces,  dating  from  the  beginning 
of  the  struggle,  was  premeditated  and  in  pursuance  of  a 
carefully  arranged  plan  for  its  permanent  retention.  A 
treaty  making  slip  set  awry  the  arrangements.  So  Uncle 
Sam,  our  close-fisted  Uncle,  lost  a  province.  Later,  he  lost 
the  same  land  again,  but  the  second  time  he  was  in  the 
wrong  even  before  it  was  won  and  offered  to  him.  Before 
relating  the  incidents  of  the  second  fiasco,  however,  I  must 
digress  so  far  as  to  submit  my  first  sources  of  information 
concerning  the  personality  of  that  romantic  but  misguided 
character,  William  Walker,  the  '*Gray  Eyed  Man  of  Des- 
tiny," one-time  conqueror  of  Lower  California. 

As  a  child,  I  lived  in  the  early  California  mining  town  of 
Marysville,  whither  my  father,  in  company  with  many  an- 
other young  fortune-seeker,  had  journeyed  in  the  exciting 
days  immediately  following  the  discovery  of  gold.  In  the 
evenings  of  my  childhood,  he  was  ever  generous  in  satisfy- 
ing my  craving  for  adventure  with  his  reminiscences  of  the 
golden  days  along  the  Yuba  River.  These  reminiscences 
have  never  grown  dim  in  my  memory:  there  was  the  story 
of  how  Alcalde  Field  rose  to  be  a  Justice  of  the  United 
States  Supreme  Court,  of  the  heroism  of  the  women  of  the 
Donner  Party,  of  Lord  ''Charlie"  Fairfax  who  preferred 
being  a  Speaker  of  the  California  Legislature  to  holding  his 
English  title;  there  were  stern  tales  of  the  way  the  Union- 
ists ended  dueling  in  California  by  grimly  naming  double- 
barreled  shotguns  with  buckshot  loads  at  six  paces  as  terms 
of  combat  with  any  southern  challenger;  and  last  but  not 


UNCLE  SAM'S  LOST  PROVINCE 


49 


lightly  to  be  related,  was  the  history  of  *Tilibuster  Walker/' 
that  man  greater  than  a  pirate  or  an  Indian,  who  had  even 
asked  my  father  to  go  a-filibustering  with  him,  first  in 
Mexico  and  then  in  Nicaragua.  And  in  those  childish 
days  I  could  not  comprehend  why  such  an  invitation  had 
been  declined,  for  being  a  filibuster  seemed  greater  than  be- 
coming president,  or  even  being  a  pirate.  In  later  years, 
while  a  law  student,  I  saw  much  of  one  Barney  Wolfe,  an 
early  Marysville  friend  of  my  father.  '^Handsome  Bar- 
ney" he  had  been  called  in  the  '50's  when  he  was  by 
Walker's  side  in  Nicaragua. 

Thus  possessed  of  the  American  side  of  Walker's  history, 
I  found  a  peculiar  interest  in  entering  Lower  California  and 
listening  to  the  old  Indians  and  Mexicans  who  had  seen  and 
known  him  there,  and  it  seems  appropriate  here  to  record 
the  Mexican  course  of  the  ^'Last  of  the  Filibusters."  In 
1850,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six.  Walker  had  made  his  appear- 
ance in  San  Francisco  as  a  journalist.  Prior  to  that  date, 
he  had  trained  himself  for  medicine,  law  and  journalism, 
having  studied  successively  at  his  native  city  of  Nashville, 
and  in  Philadelphia,  Paris,  Gottingen,  Heidelberg  and  New 
Orleans.  In  1851,  he  came  before  the  California  public  in 
consequence  of  an  article  in  his  paper,  the  San  Francisco 
Herald,  reflecting  upon  a  certain  Judge  Parsons;  because 
of  this  article  he  was  fined  five  hundred  dollars  and,  in  de- 
fault of  payment  thereof,  sent  to  jail.  A  popular  demon- 
stration In  Walker's  behalf  ensued  and  he  was  released  on 
a  writ  of  habeas  corpus.  Later,  he  went  before  the  Cali- 
fornia Legislature  and  endeavored  to  secure  the  Impeach- 
ment of  Judge  Parsons — judicial  Impeachments  being  a 
California  epidemic  at  that  time.  In  1852,  Walker  ap- 
peared In  Marysville  as  an  attorney  and  as  leader  of  the 
pro-slavery  faction.  In  the  same  year  he  visited  Guaymas 
for  the  purpose  of  discovering  what  the  French  filibusters. 


CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


Plndray  and  Count  Raousset  de  Boulbon,  were  doing  in 
Sonora.  Impressed  with  the  possibility  of  forming  a  pro- 
slavery  state  out  of  Sonora,  the  young  firebrand  hastened 
back  to  California  where  he  found  a  hearty  support  await- 
ing him  at  the  hands  of  the  southern  leaders,  the  **Chiv" 
element,  who,  imbued  not  only  with  devotion  to  the  slave 
cause  but  also  with  a  firm  belief  in  the  doctrine  of  **mani- 
fest  destiny,"  were  watching  the  French  filibusters  with 
hostile  eyes.  Heartily  encouraged,  therefore,  and  accom- 
panied by  his  friend,  Henry  P.  Watkins,  Walker  revisited 
Guaymas  in  June,  1853,  only  to  be  ordered  away  by  the 
alarmed  authorities.  But  before  his  departure  many  of 
the  affrighted  inhabitants  besought  him  to  return  with  fight- 
ing men  and  protect  them  from  the  warlike  Yaquis  who 
even  to  this  day  terrorize  portions  of  Sonora. 

Once  again  in  the  United  States  Walker  opened  a  re- 
cruiting office  at  San  Francisco  and  issued  to  ready  pur- 
chasers bonds  of  the  prospective  ^^Republic  of  Sonora  and 
Lower  California."  California  was  filled  with  venture- 
some spirits  and  many  of  them  at  once  gathered  about  Wal- 
ker's standard.  For  the  major  part  these  recruits  were 
young  Kentuckians  and  Tennesseans,  imbued  with  southern 
ideas  and  ^'spoiling  for  a  scrap."  On  October  the  15th, 
1853,  Walker,  with  forty-six  men  and  abundant  supplies, 
slipped  out  of  the  Golden  Gate,  bound  on  a  filibustering  ex- 
pedition against  a  friendly  nation.  No  attempt  was  made 
to  stop  his  warlike  brig,  the  '^Caroline,"  for  the  very  defi- 
nite reason  that,  for  preventing  Walker's  departure  two 
weeks  earlier  in  the  *'Arrow,"  General  Hitchcock  had  been 
removed  from  his  command  of  the  government  forces  at 
San  Francisco!  In  the  '50's  Jefferson  Davis  and  his  south- 
ern clique  of  Senators  were  anxious  to  make  the  way  easy 
for  an  adventurer  who  might  bring  a  new  Texas  into  the 


UNCLE  SAM'S  LOST  PROVINCE 


51 


Union  and  add  new  slave  votes  to  their  column  in  the 
United  States  Senate. 

In  due  time  the  **Caroline''  arrived  at  Las  Paz,  where 
Walker  landed  his  men,  took  the  city,  issued  a  proclama- 
tion promising  general  protection,  religious  toleration  and 
establishing  the  Louisiana  Code,  a  simple  method  of  intro- 
ducing slavery.  A  flag,  with  two  stars  representing  Lower 
California  and  Sonora  and  with  two  red  stripes  enclosing  a 
white  one,  was  immediately  hoisted  and  a  republic  was  pro- 
claimed with  Walker  as  President,  Frederic  Emory  as  Sec- 
retary of  State,  John  M.  Jernagin  as  Secretary  of  War, 
Howard  H.  Snow  as  Secretary  of  the  Navy,  Charles  H. 
Gilman  as  Captain  of  Battalion,  and  Wm.  P.  Mann  as  Ad- 
miral of  the  Navy.  These  proceedings  the  natives  viewed 
with  complacency.  Such  opposition  as  they  offered  was  speed- 
ily overcome  by  the  invaders,  who  shortly  departed  taking 
with  them  the  public  documents — or  such  of  them  as  they 
had  not  already  shot  away  as  cartridge  covers — and  Senor 
Robelledo,  the  Political  Chief  of  the  district.  After 
touching  successively  at  San  Jose  del  Cabo  and  Magdalena 
Bay,  the  filibusters  disembarked,  a  hundred  miles  south  of 
San  Diego,  at  Todos  Santos  Bay,  where  Walker  established 
himself  in  headquarters,  which  he  termed  Fort  McKibben, 
from  whence  he  easily  repulsed  the  attacking  Mexicans. 

Meantime,  rumor  and  the  press  announced  throughout 
the  United  States  the  accurate  news  that  Walker  was  in  con- 
trol of  Lower  California,  and  throughout  the  South  and 
West  many  were  anxious  to  join  his  standard.  One  eve- 
ning, early  in  December,  1853,  the  great  double  doors  of 
an  improvised  barrack  were  thrown  open  in  San  Francisco 
and  out  upon  the  streets  poured  a  body  of  well-armed  re- 
cruits for  ^'President  Walker."  Undisturbed,  except  by 
the  clamor  of  many  who  desired  to  join  them,  they  marched 
down  to  the  water  front  and,  two  hundred  and  thirty  strong. 


52        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


sailed  at  midnight  In  the  '^Anlta''  for  Todos  Santos  Bay. 
These  men  were  mainly  Kentucklans  and  Tennesseans,  with 
a  sprinkling  of  Irish  and  Germans  whom  Walker  considered 
the  bravest  of  all  foreigners  and  the  only  equals  of  his  irre- 
sistible American  warriors.  In  physique  these  filibusters 
rivalled  the  giant  guardsmen  of  the  Emperor  Frederick; 
among  them  a  man  under  six  feet  In  height  was  a  rarity. 

Reinforced  by  these  adventurers,  Walker  seized  Santo 
Tomas  and  fought  the  battles  of  La  GruUa  and  San  Vicente, 
both  victories  for  his  flag.  In  referring  to  these  contests 
the  old  Mexicans  and  Indians,  to  a  man,  characterize  Wal- 
ker in  the  same  words :  he  was  small,  boyish  appearing  and 
very  brave  {muy  valiente) .  Moreover,  he  seemed  pos- 
sessed of  Berserker  rage  in  battle.  In  describing  this  at- 
tribute an  old  Indian  at  San  Vicente  related  to  me  how 
Walker  rushed  always  ahead  of  his  men  when  fighting  and 
at  such  times  seemed  a  devil.  The  general  Impression  re- 
tained of  the  filibusters  Is  that  Walker  feared  nothing  and 
was  a  wonderful  Captain;  that  he  was  youthful  looking  and 
wished  the  people  to  be  free  from  ill  usage;  that  his  men 
were  sharpshooting  giants  seeking  to  ravage  the  land>  but 
"all  soldiers  and  officials  did  that  In  those  days"  according 
to  one  of  my  Informants.  At  Ensenada,  an  old  Indian 
woman  gave  me  her  recollections  of  the  filibusters :  she  had 
been  a  mere  girl,  living  at  San  Isldro  where  there  were  many 
young  women,  when  ^^Guillermo^'  Walker  and  his  Ameri- 
canos marched  by:  he  was  a  small,  preoccupied  Capitan, 
hut  his  men  were  very  tall  and  they  waved  handkerchiefs  at 
her  and  her  friends.  I  Inquired  what  response  was  made : 
"Oh,  we  waved  our  hands  to  them,  beckoning,"  she  replied, 
with  a  crackling  grin. 

Walker  was  always  restlessly  busy.  Besides  fighting 
these  small  battles,  he  Issued  five  more  proclamations,  or- 
ganized a  government  and  drilled  his  followers — and  so 


UNCLE  SAM'S  LOST  PROVINCE 


53 


incessantly  that  a  body  of  them  endeavored  to  desert,  an 
unfortunate  step  on  their  part,  however,  for  not  only  were 
they  unsuccessful  in  their  effort  but  two  of  their  number 
were  shot  and  many  of  the  others  flogged.  Immediately 
after  these  proceedings,  the  filibuster  leader  gathered  his 
men  about  him  and  offered  them  all  their  choice  of  con- 
tinuing on  or  of  returning  to  the  United  States.  Only  fifty 
turned  northward.  With  the  balance  Walker  went  into 
quarters  at  San  Vicente. 

At  this  point  Uncle  Sam  again  might  have  acquired 
Lower  California.  He  had  allowed  Walker  to  recruit  and 
outfit  in  his  territory  and  to  sail,  unhindered,  through  the 
Golden  Gate;  six  months  had  passed  and  now  the  Penin- 
sula lay  in  the  filibuster's  palm,  ready  for  annexation.  But 
Uncle  made  no  move.    The  opportunity  was  lost. 

There  is  no  lack  of  interest  in  the  further  adventures  of 
the  filibusters  even  though  they  have  had  no  chronicler. 
On  the  20th  of  March,  1854,  Walker  sent  a  portion  of  his 
forces  to  San  Quintin  Bay  and  Rosario  under  instructions 
to  hold  the  country.  With  the  balance  he  marched  into  the 
mountains  to  the  east  of  San  Vicente  and  history  has  had 
no  record  of  his  doings  thereafter  until  he  appeared  a  month 
later,  on  the  west  bank  of  the  Colorado  River,  intent  on 
reaching  Sonora  and  subjecting  it  to  his  rule.  His  every 
step,  however,  is  recalled  by  the  old  Indians.  According 
to  their  accounts  he  entered  the  Pais  country,  along  the  Col- 
entura  Arroyo,  directed  by  a  small  band  of  Indian  allies, 
and  there  some  of  his  men  met  their  death — just  how  or  by 
whom  the  Indians  do  not  relate.  From  this  arroyo  he 
swung  around  the  northwest  shoulder  of  the  mighty  sierra 
of  San  Pedro  Martir  and  entered  the  Valle  Trinidad,  the 
scattered  inhabitants  fleeing  before  him.  Here  he  added  to 
his  stock  of  beef  cattle  and  preempted  an  unbroken  ^'calico" 
or  pinto  stallion  which  the  departing  Mexicans,  with  malice 


54        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


aforethought,  had  left  behind.  It  was  a  beautiful  animal, 
and  possessed  of  so  wild  and  vicious  a  spirit  that  no  vaquero 
had  been  able  to  stay  astride  its  back.  When  the  boyish 
Capitan,  therefore,  in  the  presence  of  his  men  and  of  nume- 
rous Indians,  not  only  mounted  the  stallion  but  subdued  it, 
the  Indians,  delighted  by  such  horsemanship — and  the  evi- 
dent abundance  of  provisions — immediately  allied  them- 
selves to  the  cause  of  the  filibusters  and  showed  them  their 
ancient  trail  into  the  secret  depths  of  the  Arroyo  Grande 
and  thence  across  the  desert,  around  the  Sierra  del  Pintos, 
and  down  the  Hardy  River  to  the  Colorado.  By  this  time. 
Pais,  Kaliwa,  Catarina  Yuma  and  Cocupa  Indians  were 
following  the  Americanos  and  joyously  sharing  their  di- 
minishing provisions. 

Crossing  the  Colorado  River  proved  a  disastrous  feat. 
Cattle  and  supplies  were  swept  away,  lives  lost  and  the  rank 
and  file  discouraged.  Famine  and  a  general  break-up  en- 
sued, some  of  the  filibusters  traveling  northward  and  sur- 
rendering to  the  American  forces  at  Yuma,  while  Walker 
himself  with  the  balance,  recrossed  the  river  and  began  his 
return  march.  Provisions  gone,  the  Americanos  quickly 
lost  their  Indian  allies  and  soon  found  them,  as  pitiless 
enemies,  co-operating  with  a  company  of  Mexican  troops 
under  Melendrez,  a  most  resourceful  officer.  Eventually, 
the  remnant  of  the  filibusters,  their  reputation  for  fearless 
bravery  in  no  way  tarnished,  reached  the  American  Line 
just  south  of  San  Diego,  and  surrendered,  on  the  American 
side,  to  Captain  Burton,  of  the  United  States  Army. 

Just  before  Walker  and  his  men  crossed  the  Line,  the 
leader  of  the  pursuing  Mexican  forces  advised  Captain 
Burton  that  he  wished  to  capture  the  filibusters.  ''Good," 
responded  Burton,  ''that  will  relieve  us  of  trouble.  You 
are  five  to  one,  go  ahead.'*  Thereupon  the  Mexican  troops 
advanced  cautiously  upon  their  crippled  foe,  but  Walker,  in 


UNCLE  SAM'S  LOST  PROVINCE 


55 


place  of  escaping  across  the  Line,  faced  his  young  warriors 
about  and  led  them,  wildly  cheering,  against  the  foe.  The 
latter  fled,  incontinently,  whereupon  Walker  marched  his 
men  into  United  States  territory  and  surrendered.  The 
filibusters  whom  Walker  had  sent  southward  from  San 
Vicente  overran  the  country  while  their  ammunition  lasted, 
then  they  died  by  the  garrote  and  the  dagger.  For  his 
action  against  a  friendly  country.  Walker  was  tried  in  the 
United  States  Court  at  San  Francisco — and  acquitted! 

When  one  recalls  that  in  1847-8  Uncle  Sam  fought  for 
Lower  California,  obtained  possession  of  the  land,  con- 
ciliated the  people — and  then  gave  up  the  country;  that  in 
1853-4  he  permitted  Walker  to  outfit  and  recruit  in  San 
Francisco  and  acquitted  him  of  the  crime  of  so  doing — 
and  yet  did  not  accept  Lower  California  when  the  filibuster 
had  it  in  hand  early  in  1854;  when  one  reads  that  in  1859, 
our  same  Uncle,  through  President  Buchanan  and  his  Minis- 
ter to  Mexico,  McClane,  endeavored  to  take  advantage  of 
Benito  Juarez's  extremity  and  purchase  Lower  California; 
and  twenty-two  years  later,  if  rumor  runs  truly,  only  the 
death  of  President  Garfield  interfered  with  an  official  sound- 
ing of  Mexico  as  to  her  willingness  to  sell  the  California 
Peninsula:  When  one  considers  this  succession  of  incon- 
sistent actions,  but  a  single  explanation  presents  itself:  as- 
suredly, they  all  chanced  at  times  when  our  Uncle  Sam  was 
off  fishing  and  Miss  Columbia  was  running  the  government 
and  enjoying,  to  the  limit,  her  feminine  prerogative  of  be- 
ing whimsical. 

Persistently,  however,  the  question  arises.  Will  the  United 
States  acquire  Lower  California?  And  it  is  no  unsafe  pre- 
diction to  reply  that  the  Peninsula  will  not  come  under  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  by  any  filibustering  doorway.  The  ill- 
advised  persons,  who  buried  stands  of  arms  in  the  sands 
near  San  Quintin  not  a  quarter  of  a  century  since,  might  well 


S6        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

have  known  that,  in  endeavoring  to  emulate  Walker,  they 
were  pursuing  a  plan  not  in  accord  with  an  age  of  Hague 
Peace  Tribunals. 


CHAPTER  V 


WHEREIN  I  LOSE  MY  PARSON  AND  FALL  IN  WITH  SENOR  DICK 

DECEMBER  and  January  had  passed  and  February 
was  opening  with  a  burst  of  rain  that  made  the  pos- 
session of  a  slicker  a  distinct  blessing.    San  Vicente, 
with  its  romantic  associations,  was  many  leagues  behind  me, 
but  my  course  still  trended  southward  along  El  Camino 
Real. 

On  the  fifth  of  February  I  rode  into  San  Quintin,  a  small 
village  of  perhaps  a  hundred  two-legged  inhabitants  and 
a  hundred  million  fleas.  It  is  situated  on  the  edge  of  the 
Pacific,  just  above  the  thirtieth  parallel  of  north  latitude, 
and  hard  by  five  strange  hills  which,  in  the  halcyon  days  of 
its  buccaneering  and  smuggling  trade,  gave  the  port  its 
early  name  of  the  Bay  of  Five  Hills.  Briefly,  San  Quintin 
has  a  harbor  which  needs  dredging,  wonderful  salt  beds 
from  which,  for  some  unknown  reason,  no  salt  is  extracted, 
a  flour  mill  which  is  enjoying  a  long  vacation,  and  a  lobster 
factory  which  does  nothing  to  interfere  with  the  numerous 
lobsters  thriving  along  the  coast.  Also,  there  is  a  twenty- 
mile  railroad — relic  of  colonization  efforts — over  which  a 
locomotive  once  traveled  carrying  as  its  freight  a  bale  of 
hay;  being  put  to  work,  later,  at  running  the  flour  mill! 
Finally,  gulls  and  other  sea  fowl  march  and  counter  march 
in  squadrons  along  the  shore  line,  while  the  duck  and  goose 
shooting  to  he  had  at  San  Quintin  is  not  to  be  excelled  on 
the  American  continent. 


57 


58 


CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


In  consequence  of  a  ^'scene''  with  my  erstwise  Texas  par- 
son, I  arrived  at  San  Quintin  in  a  most  irritable  mood.  The 
trouble  had  arisen  from  the  man's  devotional  methods.  Of 
course  an  earnest  desire  for  prayer  at  eventide — though  as- 
suredly most  unusual  along  the  Border — merits  respect, 
but  Ben's  proceedings  along  this  line  early  aroused  my  sus- 
picions concerning  his  sincerity;  for  not  only  did  he  shout 
his  supplications  in  good  old  southern  Methodist  fashion, 
but  he  shortly  developed  a  vexatious  habit  of  confessing  his 
sins  dolefully  in  my  immediate  presence  at  such  times  as  I 
was  tired  and  especially  in  need  of  sleep.  The  second  night 
of  these  revival  experiences  had  brought  forth  the  fact  that 
the  fellow  was  in  Mexico  because  of  an  anxious  Grand  Jury 
in  Texas :  admitting  his  crime  and  expressing  his  penitence, 
he  called  loudly  upon  his  Creator  for  forgiveness,  announc- 
ing his  desire  to  return  and  receive  the  full  punishment 
awaiting  him  at  the  hands  of  the  law.  My  sympathy 
aroused — though  my  slumbers  were  disturbed — I  advised 
him  the  following  morning  that  upon  the  completion  of  our 
trip  I  would  present  his  case,  in  its  most  favorable  aspect, 
to  the  prosecuting  attorney  of  his  home  county  and  arrange 
for  a  light  sentence,  the  arrangement  between  us  being  con- 
ditioned upon  his  return  to  Texas  and  submission  to  the  au- 
thorities. Texas  prisons,  however,  are,  it  seems,  places  in 
which  one  has  no  leisure  for  continuous  prayer,  but  much 
time  for  heavy  manual  labor;  therefore  my  suggestion  was 
not  well  received.  Finally,  the  morning  before  our  arrival 
at  San  Quintin,  the  wayward  Ben  petulantly  disclosed  his 
cowardice,  declaring  himself  averse  to  facing  the  prospec- 
tive dangers  of  the  middle  portion  of  the  Peninsula  and  ad- 
vising me  to  give  up  the  idea  of  proceeding  Into  such  an  arid 
region.  To  this  I  made  bitter  reply,  stating  that  I  Intended 
to  proceed,  even  though  I  had  to  travel  alone,  and  as  for 
him,  if  he  planned  to  desert,  he  had  best  do  so  at  the  first 


WHEREIN  I  LOSE  MY  PARSON 


59 


town,  for  if  he  endeavored  to  leave  me  in  the  wilderness 
farther  south,  I  would  shoot  him  down  like  a  dog. 

Under  such  a  happy  condition  of  affairs,  enhanced  by  the 
dampness  of  a  driving  rain  storm,  I  made  my  entry  into  San 
Quintin.  Almost  immediately,  however,  matters  became 
more  cheerful,  for  a  courteous  and  well  informed  Mexican, 
Sr.  Gabriel  Victoria,  greeted  me  kindly  and  made  me  ac- 
quainted with  the  Englishman,  Sefior  Dick.  The  balance 
of  his  name  is  immaterial.  The  ''remittance  man"  of  my 
Alamo  burro  show  had  first  mentioned  him  to  me.  Some 
time  a  first  mate  in  the  English  merchant  marine  and  since 
the  early  '8o's  engaged  continuously  in  Peninsular  mining 
enterprises,  no  more  romantic  figure  is  to  be  found  in  Lower 
California  than  this  sturdy,  blonde,  good-looking  English- 
man, Sefior  Dick.  The  more  material  part  of  his  qualifi- 
cations is,  that  you  cannot  find  a  better  traveling  companion 
for  El  Camino  Real  than  he,  or  one  more  widely  informed. 

On  the  evening  of  my  arrival  at  San  Quintin,  ''Charlie," 
an  extremely  wise  and  enthusiastic  Chinaman  whose  ac- 
quaintance I  had  just  made,  came  to  my  tent  with  word  that 
I  was  wanted  in  the  hotel  dining-room.  On  entering  the 
room,  five  minutes  later,  I  found  that  it  was  deserted  save 
for  two  lone  men  who  were  seated  at  either  end  of  a  long 
table.  One  was  Sefior  Dick,  the  other  I  recognized  as  the 
native  mail  carrier  of  the  district.  As  the  substantial  distance 
between  the  two  men  was  bridged  by  an  alarming  array  of 
bottles,  I  accepted  Sefior  Dick's  Invitation  to  be  seated,  with 
a  mental  thanksgiving  for  an  extensive  capacity  that  comes 
through  a  strain  of  Dutch  blood.  No  sooner  was  I  In  my 
allotted  place  than  the  prompt  opening  of  bottles  assured 
me  of  the  accuracy  of  what  I  already  surmised:  I  was  In  for 
a  serious  and  not-to-be-sllghted  ordeal,  a  frontier  drinking- 
bout.  And  here  let  me  parenthesize  that  San  Quentin  Is 
pronounced  San  Canteen,  a  pronunciation  which  no  visitor 


6o        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


is  apt  to  forget,  for  assuredly  the  canteen  is  patron  saint  of 
this  flea-bitten  pueblo.  As  assistance  in  securing  a  new 
muleteer  might  depend  on  the  manner  in  which  I  passed  the 
drinking  test,  I  committed  myself  to  it  with  due  deliberation. 
Fortunately,  by  taking  port  in  place  of  the  more  fiery  mes- 
cal chosen  by  my  companions  and  by  devoting  considerable 
time  to  the  consumption  of  crackers  and  apples,  I  was  en- 
abled to  hold  my  own,  acquitting  myself  to  the  evident  satis- 
faction of  my  examiners. 

Early  in  the  game  Charlie  dropped  in,  inquiring  whether 
I  was  acquainted  with  two  of  my  compatriots  who  had 
passed  through  some  months  before.  **Him  catchee  klyote,'' 
he  exclaimed,  disdainfully,  ^*no  good  came.  Him  catchee 
lats  and  mice,  belly  good,  muy  hueno^  he  added,  musingly, 
at  the  same  time  indicating,  with  thumb  and  forefinger,  the 
way  in  which  he  transferred  similar  choice  morsels  into  his 
mouth.  Subsequently  I  ascertained  that  the  Americans  had 
been  engaged  in  securing  specimens  for  the  National  Mu- 
seum at  Washington.  The  festive  Oriental,  however,  had 
come  to  his  own  conclusions.  Presently,  inspired  by  the 
clinking  glasses  and  the  mellow  light  of  dim  lamp  and 
flickering  candle,  Senor  Dick  and  the  Mexican  grew  remin- 
iscent, recounting,  in  turn,  a  succession  of  weirdly  fascinat- 
ing tales  of  mines  and  lost  prospectors,  of  buried  treasure 
and  haunted  ruins,  of  game  and  poisonous  serpents,  of  the 
camino  and  of  thirst.  Finally,  when  the  bottles  were  nearly 
empty,  the  jovial  Chino  showed  that  he  had  sportive  as  well 
as  epicurean  tastes,  for  he  gravely  produced  from  within 
the  liberal  folds  of  his  blouse  a  ragged  pack  of  cards  and 
innocently  suggested  a  ^little  gama  poka."  This  risk — the 
mail  carrier  averred  that  Charlie  always  had  '^full  houses'* 
— I  avoided  by  coolly  suggesting,  as  a  substitute,  that  each 
man  turn  a  card,  ^'low"  man  to  win,  our  watches  the  stakes 
and  only  to  be  produced  after  the  **show  down."    But  to 


WHEREIN  I  LOSE  MY  PARSON 


6i 


this  game  Charlie  objected  as  naively  as  he  had  urged 
*'poka."  The  reason  for  his  reluctance  and  my  indiffer- 
ence was  explained  later  when,  being  curious  concerning  the 
hour,  we  drew  out  our  timepieces :  his  was  a  valuable  gold 
repeater;  mine  had  cost  a  dollar  and  was  already  out  of 
order. 

Astounded  by  the  oblique  position  of  the  hour  hand,  we 
hunted  our  blankets,  upturned  glasses,  drained  bottles, 
empty  lamp  and  guttered  candle  silently  attesting  the  end 
of  the  "conference."  And  yet  such  were  its  auspicious  re- 
sults that  before  morning  was  far  advanced  Senor  Dick  and 
I  were  in  the  saddle,  with  pack  animals  swinging  along  be- 
fore us.  A  capable  well-mannered  Mexican  boy,  duly  in- 
dentured to  me  for  three  months,  had  taken  my  parson's 
place  as  muleteer,  San  Quintin  was  miles  behind  us,  and  my 
worries  were  forgotten.  I  had  paid  off  Ben  before  leaving 
the  village;  so  thenceforth  there  was  prospect  of  my  slum- 
bers being  undisturbed.  The  little  I  know  concerning  the 
unfortunate  fellow's  subsequent  movements  was  related  to 
me  months  later.  Retracing  his  steps  northward  he  had 
stopped  by  the  wayside,  evidently  to  enjoy  the  hospitality 
of  a  party  of  miners,  when  one  of  the  latter  suddenly  de- 
manded my  whereabouts.  Being  somewhat  slow  in  his  re- 
sponse, the  dazed  Ben  found  himself  unexpectedly  face  to 
face  with  that  inflexible,  though  unwritten,  law  of  the  fron- 
tier, which  declares  that  where  two  men  enter  the  wilder- 
ness together  and  one  returns,  alone,  that  one  must  account 
satisfactorily  for  the  absence  of  his  fellow  or  suffer  the  con- 
sequences. That  evening  the  unfortunate  fellow  slipped 
out  of  camp;  he  appeared  later  in  Ensenada,  but  I  never 
saw  him  again. 

And  now  what  a  different  and  interesting  companion  I 
had!  For  three  days  our  course  trended  southward,  and 
except  at  Rosario,  not  a  man  crossed  our  trail.    The  sierras 


62        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


blocked  the  eastern  horizon,  the  booming  Pacific  was  down 
at  our  right  and  all  about  us  were  cacti,  cacti  and  more  cacti. 

**Senor  Dick,  where  are  the  Indians?"  I  inquired  as  we 
rode  along.  '*In  the  States,  Lower  California  and  Indians 
are  practically  synonymous." 

The  Senor  shifted  his  stubby  pipe  and  answered  shortly, 
**In  the  States  and  in  the  Old  Country,  people  don't  know 
anything  about  Lower  California."  Presently,  however, 
he  considered  the  Indian  proposition.  **They  are  dead, 
stone  dead,  the  whole  blooming  outfit — except  a  few  strays. 
Down  along  the  Colorado  and  the  Hardy  there's  said  to  be 
a  fair  handful  of  Cocupas.  I  take  it  that  youVe  made  the 
acquaintance  of  the  Catarina  Yumas  and  Pi-pis,  and,  by  and 
bye,  over  there  on  San  Pedro  Martir,  youMl  find  the  Kali- 
was.  But  the  southern  tribes,  the  thousands  of  Pericues, 
Guiacuras  and  Cochimis — you'll  have  a  hard  time  finding 
even  a  trace  of  them."  I  urged  my  mule  forward.  It  is 
strangely  difficult  to  catch  the  words  of  a  man  riding  ahead 
of  one. 

''Weren't  they  hardy?"  I  asked. 

''Rather."  Then  his  blue  eyes  twinkled  and  he  con- 
tinued, "Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Indian  who  ran  from 
Santa  Rosalia  to  San  Francisco?" 

"No,  tell  me,"  I  urged. 

"It  is  a  true  yarn,"  began  my  companion,  and  with  this 
introduction  narrated  the  following  tale :  A  few  years  ago 
there  lived  on  the  Peninsula  an  ancient  hunter,  an  Indian  by 
the  name  of  Juan.  He  was  a  great  wanderer,  spending 
part  of  his  time  at  Loreto,  part  at  Santa  Rosalia  and  the 
balance  in  the  "waist"  of  the  Peninsula.  On  one  of  his  peri- 
odic visits  to  Santa  Rosalia,  he  found  a  snorting,  clanging 
iron  affair,  running  on  metallic  rails  reaching  from  the  Provi- 
dencia  Copper  Mines  to  the  milling  plant  at  Santa  Rosalia. 
The  Rothschilds  and  other  big  French  capitalists,  having 


WHEREIN  I  LOSE  MY  PARSON 


63 


purchased  the  mines,  had  built  a  short  railroad  to  connect 
them  with  Santa  Rosalia,  half  a  league  distant,  but  this  ex- 
planation was  not  vouchsafed  to  Juan  nor  would  it  have 
conveyed  aught  to  him.  However,  for  years  he  had  watched 
with  silent  interest  the  steamers  plying  up  and  down  the 
Gulf  of  California,  or  the  Mar  de  Cortez  as  he  called  it, 
and  upon  being  informed  that  the  new  creature  was  related 
to  the  ^^Vapors^'  he  quietly  slipped  into  the  frame  station 
at  Providencia  and  asked  for  a  ride.  This  request  curtly 
refused,  Juan  forthwith  fell  into  a  bitter  passion  of  anger 
from  which  he  was  aroused  to  action  by  the  sneering  whistle 
of  the  departing  engine.  Casting  one  disdainful  glance 
over  station,  employees,  engine  and  track,  the  lithe  Indian 
swung  away  at  full  speed  down  the  Camino  and  shortly 
loped  into  Santa  Rosalia,  somewhat  in  advance  of  the 
screaming  engine. 

Emboldened  by  this  success,  a  month  later  Juan  entered 
the  steamship  office  at  Santa  Rosalia  and  begged  for  passage 
to  San  Francisco.  A  second  time  he  met  with  a  refusal. 
Again  angered,  the  old  hunter  sought  out  his  English  and 
American  friends  and  they,  in  a  spirit  of  mischief,  promptly 
backed  him  to  vanquish  the  steamer  Curacao  In  Its  forth- 
coming run  to  San  Francisco,  a  six  hundred  league  trip  for 
the  steamer,  four  hundred  leagues  for  the  pedestrian.  With 
a  final  shriek  of  escaping  steam,  the  Curacao  nosed  out 
of  the  harbor.  With  a  twist  of  his  breech-cloth  Juan  took 
to  the  cactus.  Two  weeks  later  the  steamer  entered  the 
slip  at  San  Francisco  and  there  sat  old  Juan  on  a  barnacled 
pile,  calmly  smoking  a  cigarette.  He  wore  a  trifle  more 
clothes  than  on  leaving  Santa  Rosalia  and  was  a  shade  thin- 
ner, but  otherwise  the  same  old  Indian.  ^^Vds,  muy  tarde^^ 
he  solemnly  remarked  to  the  Captain,  between  cigarette 
whiffs,  the  which,  freely  translated,  means  *Tou  fellows  are 
mighty  slow." 


64        CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


**Whether  or  not  Juan's  backers  wired  their  friends  in 
San  Diego  to  help  the  Indian's  legs  with  a  passage  on  the 
Northern  Express  from  that  city  to  San  Francisco,"  added 
Senor  Dick,  with  a  broad  grin,  "is  no  part  of  the  story.  I 
merely  offer  it  as  seasoning.  The  point  is,  that  Juan  made 
good  and  his  backers  gathered  in  their  wagers." 

*'It's  a  mighty  fine  story,"  said  I,  rather  emphasizing  the 
last  word,  "but  how  did  Juan  carry  his  commissary  while  on 
the  camino?" 

The  Senor  disregarded  this  query,  apparently,  his  eyes 
the  meantime  resting  abstractedly  on  our  mozos,  now  well 
in  the  lead  with  the  pack  animals.  Presently,  however,  he 
broke  the  silence.  "What  is  your  Mexican  boy  doing  there, 
off  the  camino?"  he  asked.  I  looked  up  and  observed  that 
the  boy  seemed  to  be  enjoying  himself  greatly.  "Why,  he 
is  extracting  something  edible  from  the  flower  of  the  aloe 
or  maguay." 

"Exactly!  And  that  something  is  a  dew  as  sweet  as 
honey — and  nourishing.  Do  you  know  what  that  green 
club  is,  which  my  mozo  has  so  carefully  bound  back  of  his 
saddle?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Well,  to-night  you  will  see  him  roast  that  in  the  coals 
and  enjoy  it  as  much  as  you  would  a  sweet  potato.  It  is  the 
young  stalk  of  the  flowering  maguay.  And  within  that  viz- 
naga  there,  you  may  find  a  juice  sufficient  to  lessen  thirst." 

Thus,  as  we  traveled  on  I  learned  from  the  kindly  Eng- 
lishman the  natural  lore  of  the  country,  knowledge  which 
in  time  was  to  save  my  life.  About  the  fifth  day  out  we 
approached  the  old  Mission  of  San  Fernando.  Here  our 
ways  were  to  part,  and  here  he  advised  me  to  look  out  for 
a  high  cliff  marked  with  prehistoric  hieroglyphs. 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  PETROGLYPH  MAKERS  AND  SOUTHERN  INDIANS.* 

IN  the  opening  pages  of  his  scholarly  work  on  California, 
Padre  Francisco  Javier  Clavijero,  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury Jesuit  chronicler,  dealt  extensively  with  the  native 
races  of  the  southern  portion  of  the  Peninsula,  and  in  his 
paragraphs  concerning  prehistoric  peoples  offered  material 
calculated  to  excite  the  curiosity  of  any  traveler  in  Lower 
California.  Indeed,  according  to  Clavijero  these  first  set- 
tlers were  of  heroic  size  and  given  to  hieroglyphic  writing, 
In  line  with  his  statements  is  the  following,  which  is  said 
to  have  been  written  in  1790: 

^Throughout  civilized  California,  from  south  to  north, 
and  especially  in  the  caves  and  smooth  rocks,  there  remain 
various  rude  paintings,  .  .  .  The  colors  are  of  four  kinds 
— yellow,  green,  black  and  a  reddish  color.  The  greater 
part  of  them  are  painted  high  places,  and  from  this  it  is 
inferred  by  some  that  the  old  tradition  is  true,  that  there 
were  giants  among  the  ancient  Californians.  .  .  .  One  in- 
scription resembles  Gothic  letters  interspersed  with  Hebrew 
and  Chaldean  characters.  ...  It  is  evident  that  the  paint- 
ings and  drawings  of  the  Californians  are  significant  sym- 
bols and  landmarks  by  which  they  intended  to  leave  to  pos- 
terity the  memory  of  their  establishment  in  this  country. 

.  .  .  These  pictures  are  not  like  those  of  Mexico  but 
might  have  the  same  purpose.'  " 

Bancroft,  in  his  **Native  Races,"  discusses  the  paragraph 
last  cited,  locating  the  writings  on  a  cliff  near  the  old  Jesuit 

*  Republished,  in  part,  from  The  American  Anthropologist,  for  April- 
June,  1908. 

65 


66      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

Misson  of  Santiago,  some  leagues  below  La  Paz,  and  con- 
cludes with  this  statement,  **The  only  accounts  of  antiquities 
(on  the  Peninsula)  relate  to  cave  and  cliff  paintings  and  in- 
scriptions which  have  never  been  copied  and  concerning 
which,  consequently,  not  much  can  be  said." 

These  various  passages  concerning  the  prehistoric  Cali- 
fornians  had  whetted  my  curiosity  even  before  I  entered 
Mexico  and  quite  naturally,  therefore,  throughout  my  ex- 
plorations, and  especially  in  the  cliff  regions,  I  kept  a  sharp 
lookout  for  any  evidence  of  the  handiwork  of  these  forgot- 
ten people.  To  my  great  delight  I  was  fortunate  to  dis- 
cover three  new  groups  of  cliff  writings  which  I  will  here 
present  in  succinct  order. 

I.    The  Arroyo  Grande  Petro glyphs. 

In  January,  while  hunting  big-horn,  I  made  camp  in  the 
Arroyo  Grande.  This  Grand  Canyon  is  an  awe-inspiring 
chasm  through  which  a  dry  river-bed  takes  its  course,  head- 
ing in  the  sierras  southeast  of  Alamo  and  finally  debouching 
into  the  desert  immediately  southwest  of  the  mouth  of  the 
Colorado  River.  The  product  of  volcanic  action,  the  en- 
tire region  is  dry  and  barren.  Dull  red  cliffs,  honey-combed 
with  caves,  rise  sheer  above  the  white  sand  of  the  arroyo 
bed  to  dizzy  heights  where  condor  and  big-horn  make  their 
homes.  There  are  no  known  springs  of  water  In  the  vicin- 
ity, but  in  one  of  the  many  deep  and  rocky  gorges  which 
intersect  the  Arroyo  Grande  from  the  northwest  there  are 
eight  or  nine  tinajas,  or  natural  cisterns,  where  rain  water — 
when  there  Is  rain — collects.  The  petroglyphs  are  pecked 
shallowly  into  the  face  of  a  dark  granite  boulder  set  above 
the  largest  of  the  tinajas.  In  the  lower  right  hand  corner 
of  the  cliff  there  appears  a  figure  which  may  have  been  In- 
tended to  represent  a  human  being.  Aside  from  this  it 
would  seem  as  though  the  writer  intended  to  make  an  in- 


THE  PETROGLYPH  MAKERS 


67 


scription  rather  than  to  delineate  any  figures.  The  design 
that  at  once  catches  the  eye,  however,  is  the  rain  sign  of  the 
Mokis,  the  cloud  from  which  drops  are  falling.  Two  other 
characters  of  interest  are  the  M  and  the  ^  which  stand  out 
from  the  center  of  the  group.  Here,  moreover,  as  in  the 
San  Fernando  group  which  I  will  presently  describe,  are 
designs  so  far  resembling  the  Phoenecian  characters  repre- 
sentative of  Bh  and  N  as  to  explain  the  eighteenth  century 
chronicler's  classification  of  the  California  petroglyphs  as 
writings  of  the  Chaldeans  and  other  ancient  peoples. 

These  Arroyo  Grande  petroglyphs,  though  barely  ex- 
ceeding in  any  instance  a  height  of  eighteen  inches,  stand 
out  plain  and  distinct. 

For  untold  generations  the  Arroyo  Grande  was  an  Indian 
highway  to  the  desert  and  the  Colorado  River,  and  from 
its  mouth,  traversing  the  lava  formation  of  the  eastern  por- 
tion of  the  desert,  scar-like  trails  are  still  visible,  although 
cacti,  which  require,  the  Indians  say,  two  centuries  for  ma- 
turing, long  ago  overgrew  these  forgotten  caminos  and 
stretched  their  dead  bodies  athwart  them.  Until  late  in 
the  last  century  the  Arroyo  Grande  was  a  hiding-place  for 
outlaws,  the  tinajas  being  unknown  to  the  Mexican  authori- 
ties.   Even  now  they  are  visited  but  infrequently. 

2.    The  San  Pedro  Mdrtir  Petroglyphs. 

As  the  crow  flies,  the  distance  from  these  Arroyo  Grande 
tinajas  to  the  base  of  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra,  is  not  over 
twelve  leagues,  but  to  the  being  not  blessed  with  wings,  the 
rugged  sierras  about  the  Arroyo  Grande  and  the  sweltering 
sands  of  the  San  Felipe  Desert  make  the  distance  seem  inter- 
minable. This  desert  has  a  gruesome  reputation,  for 
though  but  few  people  have  entered  upon  its  stretches,  of 
those  few,  several  have  not  returned.  Mexicans  and  In- 
dians, alike,  speak  of  it  with  a  shudder  and  there  is  no  rec- 


68      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


ord  of  any  man  having  explored  all  of  its  recesses  and 
bounds.  Out  upon  this  dreary  waste  open  the  forbidding 
mouths  of  San  Mattias,  Esperancia,  Copal  and  Diablo, 
grim  arroyos  slashed  deep  into  the  vitals  of  San  Pedro 
Martir  Sierra.  Before  these  openings  worn  boulders  and 
scarred  logs,  borne  down  from  the  heights  above  by  wild 
storm  torrents,  lie  half  buried  In  the  sand,  most  inviting 
eminences  for  lion  and  coyote  when  hunger  and  the  restless- 
ness of  night  call  them  from  their  lairs.  Even  the  Kaliwas, 
the  Indians  of  the  great  Sierra,  know  little  of  these  re- 
treats: there  is  sufficient  heat  upon  the  desert,  where  some 
air  stirs,  they  say,  with  a  shrug  of  dark  shoulders ;  why  ap- 
proach the  mountainside,  where  there  is  no  breeze  from  the 
Gulf,  and  enter  a  heat  infernal,  challenging  death  itself? 

These  arroyos  open  out  from  the  northern  side  of  the 
sierra.  In  one  of  them,  a  short  distance  from  its  mouth 
and  to  the  west,  there  are  three  successive  sets  of  petro- 
glyphs,  all  of  them  facing  the  east.  The  Indians  are  un- 
aware of  their  existence.  I  saw  them,  however,  in  August, 
1906. 

The  first  set  is  on  a  boulder  not  over  fifty  paces  from  the 
bed  of  the  arroyo.  The  design  of  this  petroglyph  is  that 
of  a  conventional  human  heart  enclosing  characters.  The 
other  sets  are  near  one  another  and  about  one  hundred 
paces  up-stream  from  the  first.  They  appear  on  bold 
granite  cliffs,  high  above  the  bed  of  the  arroyo.  One  of 
these  last  named  sets  represents  several  persons  approach- 
ing two  pine  trees.  As  the  only  pines  In  the  neighborhood 
are  on  the  crest  of  the  sierra  In  the  direction  taken  by  the 
figures,  this  petroglyph  may  be  taken  as  a  guide  post  of  the 
ancient  people. 

Clavljero,  In  recounting  the  San  Joaquin  discovery,  men- 
tions that  In  one  of  the  caves  paintings  were  found  repre- 
senting **men  and  women  with  garments  similar  to  those  of 


THE  PETROGLYPH  MAKERS 


69 


the  Mexicans,  but  they  were  entirely  barefoot.  The  men 
had  their  arms  open  and  somewhat  elevated,  and  one  of  the 
women  had  her  hair  hanging  loose  down  her  back  and  a 
tuft  of  feathers  on  her  head."  Oddly  enough,  the  figures 
of  this  group  are  not  those  of  nude  Indians  of  the  Penin- 
sula, but  of  people  *Vith  garments.'* 

On  a  cliff,  just  above  the  pine-tree  cliff,  there  are  two 
figures  either  of  persons  with  broad  head-coverings  or  of  a 
quadruped  with  human  head  and  shoulders.  Beyond  this 
set  there  is  a  panel  of  figures  on  a  broad  and  wide  cliff  and, 
at  the  farther  side  thereof,  a  sharp  design  much  like  an 
hour-glass.  All  of  these  last  three  sets  of  petroglyphs  are 
over  four  feet  in  height,  cut  in  outline  on  the  granite  rock 
and  the  peckings  smeared  over  with  an  unfading  yellowish 
paint.  Distance  plays  strange  pranks  with  them,  for  at 
first  glance  they  seem  plain  and  accessible,  but  after  one  has 
worked  his  way  upward  to  a  certain  proximity  their  inac- 
cessibility becomes  disappointingly  apparent.  Indeed,  the 
people  who  marked  these  cliffs  either  had  an  abundance  of 
rope  ladders  at  their  disposal  or  else  lower  buttresses  of 
the  crag  have  crumbled  away. 

5.    The  San  Fernando  Petroglyphs. 

It  was  in  February,  that  as  related  in  the  preceding  chap- 
ter, Senor  Dick  and  I  arrived  at  the  ruins  of  the  Franciscan 
Mission  of  San  Fernando,  founded  by  Junipero  Serra  in 
May,  1769,  immediately  prior  to  his  departure  for  Upper 
California  and  his  notable  career  In  that  favored  region. 
San  Fernando  lies  on  the  thirtieth  parallel  of  north  latitude. 
A  short  half-mile  northwest  of  the  mission  ruins  there  are 
several  high  cliffs  facing  the  east  and  on  these  I  found  the 
petroglyphs  of  which  the  senor  had  advised  me.  Accord- 
ing to  the  native  legend  these  jerogilyficos  were  made  by  a 
race  of  great  stature  who  Inhabited  the  country  long  before 


70      CAxMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


the  coming  of  the  Indians.  The  design  or  character,  which 
appears  by  itself  at  the  right  hand  of  the  group  and  resem- 
bles a  Roman  numeral,  is  identical  with  one  of  the  characters 
in  the  Santiago  group,  which  was  located  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  At  the  very  top  of  the  cliff  I  deciphered  certain 
letters,  perhaps  intended  either  for  the  Spanish  Cruz,  or  the 
Latin  Crux,  a  cross:  anyway,  it  is  said  that  these  were  add- 
ed by  the  padres  to  destroy  the  spell  of  evil  Inherent  in  the 
jerofflyficos  below! 

4.    Other  Evidence  of  the  Petroglyph  Makers. 

In  addition  to  these  various  cliff  writings,  there  are  other 
signs  in  Lower  California  which  bear  testimony  of  the  so- 
journ of  this  prehistoric  race.  Thus,  a  hundred  miles  and 
more  south  of  San  Fernando,  there  rises  a  barren  range  of 
lofty  sierras,  and  while  exploring  certain  of  its  higher  ridges 
a  prospector  recently  found  remnants  of  an  ancient  road  cut 
in  the  rock.  Before  he  had  followed  the  road  any  great 
distance  the  prospector's  canteen  failed  him,  so  that  he  was 
compelled  to  retreat  without  having  ascertained  the  objec- 
tive of  the  camino.  It  would  be  interesting  to  explore  this 
range — and  with  relays  of  Indians  to  pack  water,  explora- 
tion would  be  possible — for  its  course  might  disclose  fur- 
ther traces  of  the  Petroglyph  Makers. 

A  hundred  miles  southwest  of  these  sierras  lies  the  little 
mining  pueblo  of  Calmalli.  But  a  few  leagues  to  the  west 
of  the  pueblo  may  be  heard  the  booming  breakers  of  the 
Pacific.  On  the  cliffs  of  an  arroyo  down  near  the  ocean 
appears  the  work  of  some  bygone  Petroglyph  Maker  who 
certainly  possessed  marvelous  skill,  for  the  human  figures 
and  designs  which  he  here  drew  were  extremely  well  exe- 
cuted and  enduringly  decorated  with  coloring  matter. 
Southeast  of  Calmalli  and  just  off  the  twenty-seventh  par- 
allel of  north  latitude  lies  San  Joaquin,  a  rancho  where. 


THE  PETROGLYPH  MAKERS 


71 


according  to  Clavijero,  one  Padre  Robea,  a  Jesuit  priest, 
found  gigantic  remains  and  a  cave  with  '^painted  figures  of 
men  and  women,  decently  clad."  Near  San  Joaquin  is  the 
old  mission  town  of  San  Ignacio,  the  junction  of  numerous 
caminos  dating  back  to  the  days  of  the  padres.  Some  of 
these  highways  are  said  to  antedate  the  Spanish  conquest 
and  to  be  relics  of  the  skill  of  the  Petroglyph  Makers.  Cer- 
tainly, a  combination  of  many  laborers  with  a  remarkable 
knowledge  of  the  art  of  road-building  must  have  been  essen- 
tial for  their  construction. 

To  sum  up:  Of  a  character  differing  in  many  respects 
from  those  in  the  United  States  and  on  the  mainland  of 
Mexico,  the  cliff  writings  in  Lower  California  form  a  chain 
extending  down  the  Peninsula;  furthermore,  there  is  evi- 
dence in  the  sierras  which  indicates  the  existence  of  roads 
antedating  the  earliest  Spanish  settlements  in  the  country. 

In  connection  with  the  Petroglyph  Makers,  it  Is  quite 
worth  while  gathering  together  such  data  as  there  Is  con- 
cerning the  people  who  immediately  succeeded  them,  the 
Indians  of  the  southern  portion  of  the  California  Peninsula. 
A  crisp,  modern  description  of  these  natives  might,  with 
slight  exaggeration,  be  phrased  In  a  brief  sentence,  viz.: 
There  aren't  any.  However,  their  passing  Is  of  such  re- 
cent date  that  an  accurate  knowledge  of  them  has  been 
preserved  by  book  and  by  tradition  even  though  they  made 
no  petroglyphs  and  left  no  monuments.  When  the  first 
Europeans  landed  on  the  Peninsula  In  1533,  they  found, 
near  the  present  site  of  La  Paz,  a  wideawake  party  of  In- 
dians who  not  only  Impolitely  objected  to  being  robbed  by 
the  punctilious  Spaniards,  but  even  ruthlessly  proceeded  to 
kill  Xlmenes,  a  pilot  from  one  of  the  ships  of  Cortez.  In 
this,  the  natives  showed  a  fine  though  unconscious  sense  of 
justice,  for  Xlmenes  had,  a  short  time  before,  mutinied  and 
killed  Becerra,  his  captain.    During  the  period  of  slightly 


72      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

more  than  a  century  and  half  succeeding  this  episode,  vari- 
ous Conquistadores  and  buccaneers  visited  the  southern  por- 
tion of  the  Peninsula  and  reported  it  as  thickly  peopled  with 
Indians,  brave  in  combat,  skillful  in  diving,  unaccustomed  to 
the  wearing  of  clothing,  habitually  possessing  an  abnormal 
hunger  and  always  delighted  by  the  receipt  of  any  sweet- 
meat. 

Then  the  seventeenth  century  came  to  a  close  and  the 
Society  of  Jesus,  through  its  missionaries,  undertook  the 
development  of  California  and  the  Christianization  of  the 
'^Gentiles''  or  Indians.  These  Padres  found  two  principal 
native  tribes  inhabiting  the  southern  portion  of  the  Penin- 
sula: the  Pericues,  reaching  from  Cape  San  Lucas  to  the 
Mission  of  Santiago  and  some  leagues  beyond,  and  the 
Guiacui>as,  disputing  the  northern  territory  of  the  Pericues 
and  extending  northward  to  Loreto,  the  early  Mission  capi- 
tal of  the  Californias.  The  Cochimis,  occupying  the  region 
from  Loreto  to  the  high  mountains  at  the  northern  end  of 
Lower  California,  occasionally  reached  over  into  the  south- 
ern grounds.  In  the  aggregate  these  three  tribes  numbered 
twenty  thousand  members.  Each  of  the  three  main  tribal 
divisions  was  broken  into  many  lesser  tribes,  with  individual 
dialects  and  varied  idioms.  Although  they  were  a  healthy 
people  at  the  time  of  the  coming  of  the  Padres,  the  Indians 
did  not  remain  so  long,  for  measles,  smallpox  and  the  loath- 
some diseases  of  tainted  civilization,  introduced  among  them 
by  the  garrisons,  spread  with  frightful  virulence.  In  sev- 
enty years  the  southern  Indians  were  reduced  to  a  scant  five 
thousand.  By  1794  it  is  recorded  that  there  were  no  In- 
dians surviving  about  some  of  the  southern  missions,  and 
thirty  years  later  report  says  that  not  a  single  pure  Indian 
was  to  be  found  below  Loreto.  Those  who  escaped  disease, 
however,  lived  to  extreme  old  age.  So  indeed,  do  the 
Mexicans  upon  the  Peninsula  to-day,  and  one  may  meet 


The  aged  Cochimi  of  Santa  Gertrudis 


THE  PETROGLYPH  MAKERS 


73 


even  yet  centenarians  at  Loreto  and  learn  from  them  con- 
cerning the  closing  days  of  the  Spanish  sway  when  the  sol- 
diers branded  with  a  red-hot  iron  each  new  herd  of  Indians 
brought  into  the  Presidio ! 

The  Pericues  and  Guiacuras  are  now  practically  extinct. 
It  is  not  surprising.  Of  the  thousands  of  Cochimis,  per- 
haps a  hundred  still  survive  about  the  missions  of  San 
Xavier,  Santa  Gertrudis  and  San  Borja.  Those  at  San 
Xavier,  however,  I  am  inclined  to  believe  should  be  classed 
as  Guiacuras.  The  Cochimis  are  a  good-natured,  easy- 
going people,  far  more  formally  religious  and  far  more  fond 
of  hunting  than  the  neighboring  Mexicans;  they  are  more 
reliable  workers  than  their  neighbors,  but  they  dress  just 
as  raggedly.  A  few  years  more  and  they  will  have  disap- 
peared entirely.  A  family  of  this  tribe  watch  over  San 
Borja  Mission,  down  in  the  *Vaist"  of  the  Peninsula.  Rita, 
the  head  of  the  family,  faithfully  rang  the  mission  bells  the 
Sunday  I  spent  at  San  Borja. 

When  I  was  at  Santa  Gertrudis,  I  slept  by  the  mission 
and  was  awakened  early  in  the  morning  by  an  ancient  Co- 
chimi  who  was  croning  over  her  beads  before  the  mission 
altar.  Later,  as  she  sat  on  the  steps,  enjoying  a  cigarette 
and  sunning  her  frail  body,  she  told  me  that  she  was  over  a 
hundred  years  old.  Had  she  said  one  hundred  and  fifty  I 
should  not  have  been  skeptical,  for  she  seemed  well  along 
in  the  mummy  class.  Crouched  on  the  worn  stone  steps, 
she  seemed  the  very  epitome  of  the  mission  system,  a  poor, 
faithful  old  dame,  the  sole  worshiper  in  the  wilderness, 
dreaming  of  the  last  Padres,  for  whose  return  a  half  cen- 
tury of  prayers  had  been  vain,  and  peopling,  doubtless,  the 
deserted  plaza  with  the  figures  of  those  now  resting  In  the 
neglected  graves  hard  by. 


CHAPTER  VII 


SOME  FINAL  MISSIONARY  LABORS  AND  THE  SIERRA  CAMINO 

REAL. 

I  /^OR  three  days  Sefior  Dick  and  I  rested  at  San  Fer- 


nando, waiting  for  a  cessation  of  the  downpour 


which  met  us  there.  San  Fernando  is  conducive  to 
waiting.  Moreover,  from  both  a  geographical  and  an 
historical  standpoint,  it  is  a  spot  for  consideration.  But  to 
appreciate  San  Fernando  or  any  portion  of  the  California 
Peninsula,  for  that  matter,  an  insight,  at  least,  into  the  mis- 
sion history  of  the  land  is  essential.  Lacking  such  knowl- 
edge every  step  of  Peninsula  travel  is  deprived  of  the  wealth 
of  color  with  which  it  is  illumined  in  the  rich  traditional 
and  recorded  history  of  the  land.  In  the  State  of  Cali- 
fornia the  old  missions  are  of  romantic  interest  as  land- 
marks of  an  earlier  day.  Yet  so  vast  is  the  area  over  which 
they  are  scattered  and  so  marvelous  has  been  the  growth 
of  the  country  since  their  construction  that  a  traveler  might 
pass  the  length  of  the  State  without  seeing  so  much  as  a 
single  mission.  In  the  Mexican  Peninsula  of  Baja  Cali- 
fornia, on  the  other  hand,  so  completely  were  the  garden 
spots  searched  out  and  preempted  by  the  zealous  mission 
builders  that  the  chain  of  missions  eventually  included  the 
vital  watering  places  of  the  country.  Reaching  north, 
south  and  west  from  Loreto,  the  Mother  Mission,  and 
weaving  in  and  out  among  the  various  missions,  were  three 
great  highways,  the  Gulfo,  the  Sierra,  and  the  Pacifico, 


75 


76      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


Caminos  Reales.  So  closely  did  these  caminos  follow  the 
most  feasible  lines  of  travel  and  so  slight  has  been  the 
material  development  of  the  territory  since  the  days  of  the 
padres  that  even  now,  in  the  twentieth  century,  the  ancient 
mission  chain  is  not  an  incident  but  the  most  prominent  and 
essential  feature  of  Peninsula  travel. 

It  was  in  the  closing  years  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
over  a  hundred  and  sixty  years  subsequent  to  the  time  that 
Cortez  first  set  foot  in  the  land,  that  the  Jesuits  began  their 
monumental  series  of  mission  construction  in  California. 
Later,  after  the  Society  of  Jesus  had  dominated  for  seventy 
years,  came  the  San  Fernandines,  adding,  during  their  brief 
stay,  one  mission  to  the  twenty-five  erected  by  their  prede- 
cessors. The  Dominicans  quickly  superseded  the  San  Fer- 
nandines and,  with  nine  missions  to  their  credit,  concluded 
the  chain  begun  by  the  Society  of  Jesus.  Thus,  although 
the  missions  seen  in  the  State  of  California  were  constructed 
by  the  San  Fernandines,  alone,  the  more  numerous  missions 
in  Baja  California  represent  the  labor  of  three  Brother- 
hoods. Furthermore,  mission  building  in  Baja  California 
was  practically  completed  ere  it  began  in  what  is  now  the 
State  of  California. 

A  glimpse  into  early  chronicles  shows  the  Mission  of 
San  Fernando  in  the  light  of  an  historic  link  between  the 
two  Calif ornias.  In  the  spring  of  the  year  1769,  the 
worthy  Padre  Junipero  Serra,  head  of  the  Franciscan 
Friars,  then  new  arrivals  in  California,  accompanied  by 
Captain  Caspar  de  Portola,  Governor  of  the  Peninsula, 
and  guarded  by  a  strong  body  of  soldiers  and  In- 
dians, made  camp  at  a  spot  twenty  leagues  northwest  of 
Santa  Maria,  the  last  mission  of  the  Jesuits.  Here,  In  a 
fertile,  well-watered  valley,  surrounded  by  mountains  rich 
In  copper  and  Iron  ore,  many  Indians  lived  and  an  advance 
guard  of  the  new  Brotherhood  had  already  erected  a  few 


THE  SIERRA  CAMINO  REAL 


77 


adobes.  To  good  Padre  Serra  and  the  gallant  captain  the 
site  seemed  favorable  for  a  mission  and  therefore  they 
halted,  laying,  one  morning  in  May,  1769,  the  foundations 
of  the  Mission  of  San  Fernando  de  Velicata.  But  the  name 
of  Junipero  Serra  was  to  become  historic  in  another  Cali- 
fornia. After  a  few  days  in  this  pleasant  spot  the  Padre, 
with  Portola,  and  a  portion  of  the  escort,  hurried  forward 
and  in  July,  ninety-six  days  out  from  Loreto,  he  founded  a 
mission  at  San  Diego  and  thereby  began  his  illustrious 
career  in  Alta  California,  for  the  San  Diego  foundation 
was  the  first  of  the  many  missions  erected  in  Upper  Cali- 
fornia. 

San  Fernando  de  Velicata,  in  latitude  30  degrees  north, 
longitude  115  degrees  5  minutes  west,  and  lying  thirty 
leagues  southwesterly  from  the  Mexican  port  of  San  Quin- 
tin  on  the  Pacific  coast,  was  the  only  mission  of  the  Fran- 
ciscan Brotherhood  in  Lower  California.  For  in  the  year 
1773,  pursuant  to  a  compact  entered  into  with  the  Domini- 
can Brotherhood,  the  San  Fernandines  left  the  Peninsula 
and  moved  northward  into  Upper  California.  At  the  close 
of  the  eighteenth  century  the  mission  produced  abundant 
crops,  including  a  small  amount  of  cotton,  and  the  flocks  of 
sheep  and  cattle  increased  largely.  In  1770  there  were 
five  hundred  and  thirty  converts  registered  at  San  Fernando ; 
sixty  years  later  there  were  but  nineteen  souls  all  told?  in 
1849,  **^he  only  inhabitants"  were  *'three  old  Indians,"  and 
by  1867  the  mission  was  **in  ruins  and  deserted." 

So  much  for  the  recorded  history  of  the  Last  Mission  of 
the  Franciscan  Brotherhood  in  Lower  California.  To- 
day, approaching  from  the  southwest,  the  traveler  comes 
to  a  great,  thick  stone  wall  and  passing  through  a  break  he 
notices  to  his  left  an  ancient  stone-lined  irrigating  ditch. 
Almost  immediately  thereafter,  the  arroyo,  down  which 
the  trail  leads,  opens  into  a  wide  valley  containing  several 


78      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

hundred  acres  of  land  running  east  and  west.  At  the  far- 
ther, or  eastern  end,  rise  the  ruins  of  the  old  mission,  guard- 
ed, seemingly,  by  a  dozen  adobe  residences.  The  trail 
leads  toward  the  mission  across  the  old  fields  of  the  padres, 
now  overgrown  with  willows,  save,  only,  for  a  few  acres 
planted  with  corn.  The  line  of  the  irrigating  ditch  is  plain, 
as  one  rides  on,  and  finally  terminates  in  a  deep,  square  cis- 
tern where  the  padres  utilized  the  native  stone  and  cement. 
The  tradition  is,  that  Padre  Serra,  before  he  rode  north- 
ward, gave  instructions  concerning  the  **blasting''  of  rock 
by  heating  it  with  fire  and  then  cracking  the  heated  substance 
with  a  dash  of  cold  water  and  that  thus  aqueduct  and  cis- 
tern were  made  possible. 

The  mission  is  now  entirely  in  ruins,  a  mere  fraction  of 
the  walls  remaining  upright.  The  tglesia  was  approxi- 
mately thirty  paces  by  ten,  surface  measurement,  with  a 
small  ell  to  the  east  in  which  there  are  several  old  graves. 
To  the  west  there  were  other  adobe  structures  and  a  patio 
approximately  seventy-five  paces  by  thirty,  surface  area. 
The  tglesia  faced  the  southwest.  At  this  time  it  is  extreme- 
ly difficult  to  trace  even  the  outlines.  To  obtain  a  level 
space  for  the  buildings  an  excavation  was  evidently  made 
into  the  hill.  The  structures  of  San  Fernando  were  of 
adobe  and,  in  default  of  vestiges  of  broken  tiling,  I  should 
say  that  the  roofing  was  of  thatch. 

About  eight  families,  all,  Mexican  and  Indian  alike,  seem- 
ingly in  poor  circumstances,  live  about  the  ruins  in  adobe 
dwellings.  One  small  Mexican  family  merits  notice  for 
uniformity  of  fine  features.  The  young  husband  Is  hand- 
some, the  baby  pretty,  the  seventeen-year-old  Senora  an  un- 
conscious beauty.  In  her  delicately  chiseled  features  the 
student  of  heredity  would  trace  ancestry  of  high  degree. 
Ignorant  of  the  great  outer  world,  however,  this  queenly 


THE  SIERRA  CAMINO  REAL 


79 


child  cares  for  her  home,  content  with  an  improvident  hus- 
band, her  dimpHng  baby  and  a  tiny  flower  garden. 

With  the  breaking  of  the  rainstorm,  I  bade  Senor  Dick 
^'adios^'  and  at  the  head  of  my  caravan  and  with  Timoteo 
and  Jesus  (pronounced  Hey-sous),  my  native  mozos,  duti- 
fully bringing  up  the  rear,  I  rode  slowly  out  from  the  pre- 
cincts of  San  Fernando.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
13th  of  February,  1906,  though  to  dates  I  gave  small  heed. 
Had  I  not  been  spendthrift  of  time  and  eager  for  adven- 
ture I  should  have  turned  to  the  southwest  with  Senor  Dick 
and  ridden  along  the  road  bearing  around  via  Catarina 
(not  to  be  confounded  with  the  mission  of  that  name) .  As 
it  was,  I  headed  eastward  having  determined  to  trace  out 
the  old  Sierra  Camino  Real  and  enjoy  that  freedom  which 
only  exists  where  there  are  no  settlements  and  where  a  man 
must  rely  entirely  upon  himself  in  whatever  adventures  may 
befall  him,  a  freedom  which  abounds  in  that  narrow,  rugged 
and  almost  unknown  section  of  Baja  California — the 
**waist"  of  the  Cahfornia  Peninsula.  Let  him  who  would 
plunge  Into  that  delightfully  mysterious  region  be  slow  in 
leaving  San  Fernando,  however,  unless  he  be  well  supplied 
with  provisions,  ammunition  and  fire-arms,  with  generous- 
sized  canteens  and  with  mules — or,  still  better,  with  stal- 
wart, long-hoofed  burros.  And  let  him  never  take  the 
plunge,  if  he  be  unfortunately  lacking  a  bump  of  locality 
and  an  appreciation  of  the  wildest  haunts  of  Dame  Nature. 

On  St.  Valentine's  Day,  we  crossed  the  Plains  of  Buenos 
Ayres,  south  of  the  mountain  peaks  of  Matomi  and  San 
Juan  de  Dios,  which  were  first  visited  by  Padre  Link,  in  the 
year  1760.  They  are  almost  as  near  the  end  of  the  world 
now  as  they  were  then.  Some  adventurous  British  hunter, 
having  exhausted  the  fields  of  India  and  Africa  and  being 
desirous  of  new  wilds,  occasionally  turns  to  these  sierras 
for  lion  and  mountain  sheep;  otherwise,  they  are  rarely  dis- 


8o      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


turbed  by  foreigners.  On  the  Plains  of  Buenos  Ayres,  we 
came  to  the  pozo  (well)  of  San  Augustine,  near  which  we 
found  a  deserted  cabin  and  several  splendid  slabs  of  most 
beautiful  onyx,  which  had  evidently  been  brought  from  the 
onyx  quarries  a  few  leagues  distant,  quarries  not  worked 
at  present. 

At  San  Augustine  we  left  the  camino  leading  to  the  quarry 
and  turned  southward,  traveling  for  some  distance  with  no 
trail  at  all.  Then  we  found  traces  of  the  old  Sierra  Camino 
Real.  It  was  a  strange  country  through  which  we  passed, 
no  vegetation  save  cacti,  a  wilderness  of  stones  and  on  all 
sides  sierras  and  buttes,  resting  against  the  sky  with  flat, 
leveled  surfaces,  mere  truncated  cones,  their  peaks  snapped 
off  by  volcanic  explosions  of  some  by-gone  age.  Eventually 
we  arrived  at  an  arroyo  in  which  a  few  tall,  slender  palms 
raised  high  their  tufted  heads.  We  made  camp  here,  be- 
ing no  more  than  a  furlong  from  a  large  pool  of  fresh  water 
known  as  Agua  Duke  (Sweet  Water),  and  noted  by  the 
old  chroniclers  as  a  welcome  spring  beside  which  Fr.  Juni- 
pero  Serro  and  Caspar  de  Portola  with  their  little  retinue 
made  camp  in  May,  1769,  while  en  route  to  Upper  Cali- 
fornia. Night  was  already  upon  us  and  while  Timoteo 
and  Jesus  drove  the  stock  down  the  arroyo  for  better  food, 
I  began  building  a  fire. 

Suddenly,  a  voice  from  the  darkness  called  out:  ^^Buenas 
tardes,  Senor'^  (Good  afternoon,  sir).  Turning  about, 
startled,  my  hand  on  my  revolver,  I  saw  looming  out  of  the 
obscurity,  a  young  Mexican,  with  red  serapa,  white  som- 
brero, tattered  trousers  and  worn  guar  aches.  He  was  de- 
cidedly handsome,  but  thin  and  distressingly  bright-eyed. 
He  asked  if  he  might  buy  some  flour.  At  this  stage  of  the 
conversation,  my  men  appeared  on  the  scene  and  it  shortly 
developed  that  the  young  Mexican,  in  company  with  his 
girl-wife  and  his  father  and  mother  had  made  camp  at 


THE  SIERRA  CAMINO  REAL 


8i 


Agua  Dulce,  where  they  had  just  arrived  after  four  days' 
wandering  in  the  sierras  with  nothing  to  eat  except  the  pulp 
of  the  viznaga  cactus.  He  soon  disappeared  with  provi- 
sions, prayerfully  exclaiming  that  we  had  saved  four  lives. 
Later  on  his  parents  appeared.  Both  of  them  were  in  a 
pitiable  condition  and  both  seemed  to  be  above  the  peon 
class.  With  pathetically  listless  voices,  the  old  couple  told 
their  story.  They  had  lived  on  the  mainland,  it  seemed, 
where,  for  years,  the  father  had  been  a  school  teacher. 
Their  only  son  having  eloped  with  a  girl,  the  old  people 
accompanied  the  runaway  couple  across  the  Mar  de  Cortez 
and  thence  up  the  Peninsula.  In  the  course  of  their  wan- 
derings, the  mother  had  been  taken  ill,  in  fact  she  looked  so 
hollow-eyed  that  I  doubt  whether  the  poor  creature  sur- 
vived many  more  trials.  Finally,  while  lost  in  the  bewil- 
dering sierras,  they  had  been  overtaken  by  a  fierce  rainstorm 
and  their  provisions  had  given  out.  After  one  look  at  the 
snub-nosed  girl  in  the  case,  the  cause  of  their  disasters,  I 
pitied  the  old  couple,  anew,  and  thought  the  young  fellow  a 
fool.  The  following  day  as  we  passed  Agua  Dulce,  I  saw 
the  wanderers  camping  in  company  with  a  party  of  Indians 
who  had  dropped  upon  the  scene  from  I  know  not  where. 
They  were  so  picturesque  a  group  that  I  longed  to  train  my 
camera  upon  them,  but  I  had  not  the  heart  to  offend  such 
half-starved  people  by  attempting  to  record  their  forlorn 
condition. 

From  Agua  Dulce  we  continued  onward  through  a  wild 
country.  At  times  there  would  be  no  trail  at  all.  Fre- 
quently the  boulders  would  be  piled  high  on  the  mesa  in 
strange  designs.  Although  I  occasionally  saw  heads  and 
skeletons  of  mountain  sheep  along  the  way,  we  fell  in  with 
no  human  beings  and  observed  no.  signs  of  their  recent  pres- 
ence. We  had  our  difficulties.  First  I  suffered  from  diz- 
ziness and  nausea;  shortly  thereafter,  Coronado,  my  bell 


82      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

burro,  lurched  against  a  cholla  and  had  to  be  thrown  and 
*'hog-tied''  before  the  thorns  could  be  extracted;  then  Jesus, 
in  riding  up  a  steep  incline,  struck  his  jaw  against  a  sharp^ 
cliff,  laying  open  his  lips  and  drenching  his  face  with  blood. 
Timoteo,  however,  came  scathless  through  all.  Finally, 
we  saw  the  waters  of  the  Gulf,  the  famed  Mar  de  Cortez, 
glistening  down  below  us,  and  swinging  away  to  the  right, 
we  came  upon  the  brink  of  an  immense  rocky  gorge. 

Into  this  gorge  we  descended  the  following  morning. 
Years  ago  the  trail  had  been  washed  open  and  torn  away 
and,  according  to  Timoteo,  even  before  that  happening,  this 
portion  of  the  Sierra  Camino  Real  had  been  neglected  and 
out  of  use,  travelers  taking  a  less  rocky  course  over  near 
the  Pacific  coast.  Down  went  the  burros,  however,  jump- 
ing from  rock  to  rock  like  so  many  goats,  for  it  is  in  accord- 
ance with  his  deserts  that  throughout  the  *Vaist"  of  the 
Peninsula  the  burro  is  termed  the  King  of  the  Camino. 
Sliding,  swaying,  poising  for  a  spring,  jumping  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  rolling  stones  and  vivid  Mexican  exclama- 
tions, down  they  went,  pack  and  saddle  animals,  bringing  up 
with  a  sudden  lurch  at  a  spot  where  the  gorge  makes  a  bend 
and  where  nature  has  gently  waved  her  wand  of  beauty. 

In  nearly  parallel  lines  the  mountain  sides  rise  upward, 
seemingly  a  scarce  fifty  feet  apart,  their  white  boulders  re- 
flecting in  the  large  clear  pools  of  a  meandering  stream. 
Tall  sedge  grass  covered  the  floor  of  the  gorge  and  en- 
croached upon  the  course  of  the  stream,  while  the  profusion 
of  lofty  fan-palms  was  such  that  we  found  ourselves,  unex- 
pectedly, in  an  enchanting  tropical  forest.  High  above  were 
the  fluttering  green  boughs  of  the  palms,  high  and  higher 
yet  the  boundless  granite  sides  of  the  gorge.  A  half  mile 
of  this  grassy  course  brought  us  into  a  broader  arroyo, 
dotted  with  palms.  After  following  this  arroyo  for  a  mile, 
the  ancient  Camino  turned  sharply  to  the  right  and,  passing 


THE  SIERRA  CAMINO  REAL 


83 


between  white  boulders,  we  arrived  unexpectedly  before 
two  roofless  adobes,  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  Jesuit  Mission 
of  Santa  Maria.  The  great  palm  ridge-pole  of  one  of  the 
buildings  was  still  in  place,  the  palms  growing  beyond  show- 
ing between  the  earthen  walls  and  the  pole.  Roofs,  doors 
and  windows  were  missing.  Otherwise  the  iglesia,  or 
church,  and  parochial  house  have  fared  well  at  the  hand  of 
Time  and  man.  A  yard  from  the  level  of  the  ground  and 
exactly  in  line  with  and  beneath  the  ridge-pole  of  the  paro- 
chial house,  I  noted  a  slight  excavation. 

There  are  not  more  than  two  acres  of  level  ground  about 
the  mission,  even  including  that  upon  which  the  buildings 
stand,  and  they  require  scant  space.  The  patio,  so  usual  in 
Baja  California,  seems  here  to  have  been  omitted,  though 
the  two  buildings  were  so  erected  as  to  obtain  the  wonted 
ell.  The  main  building  faces  east  and  its  ground  measure- 
ment is  thirty  paces  by  ten.  A  pace  distant  from  its  north- 
west corner  stands  the  other  adobe,  occupying  a  space  four- 
teen paces  by  seven.  The  walls  of  the  two  buildings  are 
composed  of  adobe  with  much  straw  and  many  shells  and 
stones  intermingled.  Though  the  rains  have  beaten  against 
these  ruined  walls  and  heaped  much  fine  sand  at  their  base, 
they  still  measure  nigh  a  yard  in  thickness  and  seem  to  have 
been  between  seven  and  eight  feet  in  height  at  the  eaves. 
From  ground  to  ridge-pole  the  main  building,  certainly  an 
iglesia  from  the  ruins  of  an  altar  at  the  western  end,  must 
have  been  over  twenty  feet  in  height.  Three  doorways 
pierced  the  walls,  one  at  the  east,  one  at  the  north  and  one 
by  the  altar,  and  in  the  south  wall  there  were  three  windows, 
the  apertures  for  which  now  measure  thirty-six  by  thirty- 
three  Inches.  In  front  of  this  building,  the  ground  is  level 
with  the  earthen  floor  within,  the  natural  slope  having  been 
overcome  by  an  artificial  stone  foundation.  This  bench 
merely  extends  a  few  paces  out  from  the  doorway.  On 


84      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


looking  through  the  windows  in  the  ruined  walls  the  visitor 
sees  near  by  a  wealth  of  date  and  fan  palms,  a  spring  and  a 
ruined  aqueduct. 

The  lesser  building  was  evidently  used  as  quarters  for  the 
padre.  It  contains  two  small  rooms,  narrow  quarters  for 
men  of  such  rank  in  life  as  the  brilliant  Jesuits  who  came  to 
California.  In  the  bottom  of  the  excavation  made  at  the 
west  end  of  this  adobe,  there  are  two  hollows  which,  judg- 
ing from  their  form,  may  long  have  been  the  resting  place 
of  two  bowls  or  rounded  jars. 

Unquestionably  this  excavation  was  opened  within  recent 
years,  and  concerning  it  I  had  already  heard  this  story:  In 
1893,  an  American,  from  San  Francisco,  visited  Santa 
Maria.  Upon  his  arrival  he  went  directly  to  the  west  end 
of  the  parochial  house,  noting,  with  undisguised  satisfaction, 
that  it  stood  intact.  Then  he  examined  a  writing  while  his 
Mexican  guide,  in  obedience  to  instructions,  ascended  to  the 
ridge-pole  and  dropped  a  plummet  to  the  ground  after 
which  the  American  made  a  mark  under  the  line  of  the 
plummet  cord  against  the  west  wall,  a  measured  yard  from 
the  level  of  the  ground.  The  ensuing  morning,  without 
prospecting  or  even  looking  for  game,  the  American  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  returning  immediately  to  Alta  Cali- 
fornia. In  the  midst  of  preparations  incidental  to  break- 
ing camp  the  Mexican  managed  to  examine,  secretly,  the 
adobe  wall.  Where  the  mark  had  been  made  there  gaped 
the  excavation  which  any  traveller  may  now  see — only  then 
rust  was  in  the  hollows. 

What  had  been  stored  therein?  Consider  the  history 
and  traditions  of  Santa  Maria,  then  hazard  a  guess. 
The  tradition  is — and  even  the  mines  on  the  California  Pe- 
ninsula have  been  found  through  tradition — that  a  charita- 
ble woman  of  high  degree  lay  on  her  death  bed  in  her  splen- 
did mansion  in  crowded  Europe.    Family  and  servants, 


THE  SIERRA  CAMINO  REAL 


85 


padre  and  chirurgeon  stood  anxiously  by,  awaiting  the  end. 
Suddenly  the  good  woman  ralhed  temporarily.  When 
Death  called,  an  hour  later,  her  testament  was  written, 
signed,  sealed  and  solemnly  attested,  and  by  the  terms  there- 
of a  fortune  was  given  to  the  founding  of  missions  in  the 
three  most  inaccessible  retreats  in  the  world.  Tradition 
continues :  the  mission  sites  that  filled  the  requirements  of 
this  strange  testament  were  found  all  to  be  in  California, 
and  the  Missions  of  San  Borja,  Calamyget  and  Santa  Maria 
owed  their  existence  to  the  beneficence  of  this  testatrix. 

History  here  steps  in:  **Again,  in  1747,  Dona  Maria  de 
Borja,  Duchess  of  Gandia,  left  the  Missions  some  62,000 
pesos/^  and,  '^there  was  money  from  the  Duchess  of  Gan- 
dia's  bequest  for  a  new  mission  in  the  north  and  .  .  ,  site 
was  found  at  the  spot  called  Calagnujuet,"  and,  finally, 
**New  buildings  w^ere  erected  some  fifty  miles  above  Calag- 
nujuet, and  under  the  name  of  Santa  Maria." 

Should  the  actions  of  Dona  Maria's  trustees  come  before 
a  court  and  the  few  foreigners  who  have  visited  the  bleak 
sites  of  the  Missions  of  San  Borja,  Calamyget  and,  most 
particularly  Santa  Maria,  be  allowed  to  testify,  there  would 
be  abundant  and  unconflicting  evidence  in  the  record  that 
the  trustees  made  their  selections  in  exact  accord  with  the 
traditional  behest  of  the  grand  dame,  for  assuredly  no  three 
more  ^'inaccessible  retreats"  could  have  been  found  in  the 
wide  world. 

In  the  fall  of  the  year  1767,  Padre  Victoriano  Arnes, 
who  had  suffered  in  his  mission  efforts  at  Calamyget  where, 
between  bad  water  and  treacherous  Indians,  he  had  lost  his 
crop,  his  improvements  and  almost  his  life,  went  northward 
into  the  mountains  where  a  little  stream  with  the  big  name 
of  Carbujakaamang  ran  its  brief  course.  Here  there  lived 
over  three  hundred  Indians,  and  with  their  aid  the  Padre 
erected  an  adobe  church  and  an  adobe  residence — and  then. 


86      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


one  spring  morning  in  1768,  a  Spanish  messenger  of  King 
Charles  III.  arrived,  bearing  royal  directions  that  every 
member  of  the  Society  of  Jesus  must  leave  his  mission  with- 
out an  hour's  delay,  and  depart  forthwith  from  Spanish 
territory.  Furthermore,  no  Padre  should  take  with  him 
any  treasure  or  any  possessions,  save  his  habit,  breviary  and 
two  books,  one  on  theology,  the  other  on  science.  At  this 
time  Padre  Arnes  was  thirty  years  of  age  and  a  man  of  high 
attainments.  In  substance  this  short  paragraph  embodies 
all — except  that  the  succeeding  Brotherhoods  did  not  oc-^ 
cupy  Santa  Maria — that  history  has  to  record  of  the  last 
Jesuit  Mission  in  California,  yes,  doubtless  of  the  last  foun- 
dation of  the  Society  in  New  Spain. 

Before  his  departure  did  Padre  Arnes  store  his  small 
treasure  in  buried  jars?  Did  he  vainly  wait  for  a  revoca- 
tion of  the  decree,  expelling  his  Society,  and  on  his  death- 
bed confide  the  secret  location  to  some  fellow-padre?  Was 
the  secret  handed  down  for  nigh  a  century  and  a  half  until 
it  came  into  the  possession  of  the  San  Franciscan?  These 
are  questions  that  appeal  with  pathetic  and  romantic  inter- 
est as  one  thinks  of  the  brilliant  young  priest  who  long  ago 
fought  so  hard  endeavoring  to  establish  missions  in  two  of 
the  most  inaccessible  spots  in  the  world.  Where  did  he 
turn  his  steps,  after  being  driven  from  his  rugged  California 
sierras?  Where  were  his  later  years  spent?  History 
gives  no  answer.  Tradition  says  that  his  Indians  missed 
him;  that  after  his  departure  death  fell  upon  them  and  into 
the  gorge  of  the  Carbujakaamang  came  a  strange  lion,  a 
lion  which  neither  spear  nor  arrow  could  destroy,  and  that 
the  Indians  fled  before  it. 

And  now  for  a  century  no  Indians,  no  people  have  lived 
about  the  Mission  of  Santa  Maria.  When  the  Franciscan 
Brotherhood  succeeded  the  Society  of  Jesus,  the  newcomers 
cast  a  single  glance  at  the  Last  Mission  of  the  Jesuits  and 


THE  SIERRA  CAMINO  REAL 


87 


then  cautiously  hastened  onward.  To-day  no  Mexican  wil- 
lingly stays  any  time  in  the  mission  precincts.  When  the 
shadows  of  night  creep  around  the  looming  adobe  walls  and 
echoing  down  from  the  rocky  cliffs  comes  the  weird  scream 
of  a  lion  and  the  ghostly  palms  shiver  and  moan  in  the  lone- 
ly night,  then  Senor  Mejicano  crosses  himself  and  nervously 
curses  the  luck  that  brought  him  to  the  spot,  piles  wood 
on  his  fire  and  lies  down  to  broken  slumber,  naked  machete 
close  at  hand  and  apprejos  in  stockade  about  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


WHEREIN  I  BAG  MOUNTAIN  SHEEP  AND  MEET  THE  LAIRD 

I  /^OR  six  days  we  camped  near  the  old  mission,  resting 


our  animals  and  ourselves.    To  distract  my  mozos, 


who  were  in  continual  dread  of  lions,  I  had  them 
build  a  shady  remada  (arbor),  cutting  ocotilla  shoots  for 
the  corner  supports  and  ridge-poles  and  thatching  the  whole 
with  broad  palm  boughs.  To  their  delight,  manifested  by 
many  a  ^^Viva  la  Mejico/'  I  tied  a  small  Mexican  flag  to 
one  of  the  supports,  then  flung  out  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
above  my  tent.  At  a  near-by  spring,  Jesus  discovered  a 
flight  of  bees  and,  with  Timoteo's  assistance,  gathered  in 
an  abundance  of  clear,  sweet,  wild  honey  which  made  a 
most  acceptable  combination  with  an  excellent  kind  of  bread 
which  Timoteo  provided  by  baking  the  loaf  in  the  ashes  and 
which  he  termed  ^^pan  ItalianoJ^  To  make  complete  the 
enjoyment  of  comfort  and  shade,  good  eating  and  fine  air, 
one  should  be  a  trifle  weary.  It  is  possible  to  become  de- 
lightfully weary  on  the  steep  ascents  above  the  Mission  of 
Santa  Maria,  so  every  morning  I  clambered  to  a  new  height, 
ever  enjoying  the  wild  grandeur  of  each  newly  unfolded 
view.  Moreover,  on  one  of  these  lofty  rambles,  I  bagged 
a  noble  supply  of  big  game. 

The  shooting  came  about  in  this  fashion:  Accompanied 
by  Timoteo,  I  had  reached  a  rocky  bench  at  an  elevation  of 
nigh  five  thousand  feet.  Full  two  thousand  feet  sheer 
above  us  rose  a  high,  black  truncated  cone,  swathed  close 
in  forbidding  cliffs;  for  a  league  it  stretched  away  with  a 


89 


90      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


width  half  that  distance.    Doubtfully,  we  looked  upward. 

*^Senor,  there  must  be  a  great  mesa  above;  but  no  man 
has  ever  climbed  thither." 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  gravity  with  which  my 
man  thus  expressed  himself  in  the  vernacular,  for,  perhaps 
in  consequence  of  the  rarity  of  venturesome  native  hunters, 
virgin  hunting  grounds  are  not  at  all  uncommon  on  the 
Peninsula.  I  answered  him  gravely,  however.  '*Then  we 
are  going  to  be  the  first  to  ascend,  Timoteo,  for  in  these  re- 
gions the  old  padres  saw  wild  goats,  and  if  wild  goats  are 
above,  thither  we  must  go."  As  the  worthy  fellow  looked 
impressed,  I  proceeded  to  explain  that  in  the  eighteenth 
century  Padre  Hernando  Consag  wrote  of  seeing  wild  goats 
near  the  thirtieth  parallel  of  north  latitude,  which,  as  I  re- 
membered, was  but  a  few  leagues  distant.  Timoteo  now 
smiled,  showing  his  white  even  teeth.  Mexican  mozos 
seldom  wash  their  hands  and  have  no  idea  of  the  properties 
of  a  tooth-brush,  and  yet  their  teeth  are  pearls.  1  had  used 
the  word  chivos;  and  among  Mexicans  the  goat  is  an  animal 
without  character  and  his  name  ever  calls  forth  a  smile. 
Later,  in  studying  first  editions  of  the  old  Spanish  chroni- 
cles I  found  that  the  Jesuits  mentioned  seeing  gamuzas  dur- 
ing their  California  travels,  and  from  their  descriptions  of 
these  animals  and  their  habits  I  am  satisfied  that  the  rendi- 
tion of  gamuza  into  chiva  or  goat,  has  been  incorrect — ber- 
renda  or  antelope  would  be  more  accurate. 

*^Others  than  the  padres  have  seen  goats,  hereabouts, 
senor.  Within  the  year  past  Senor  Villavacensio's  boy  saw 
a  large  wild  goat  running  with  a  flock  of  mountain  sheep." 

^'Bueno/^  I  responded,  'Ve  must  climb  to  that  mesa  and 
find  that  goat." 

With  that  I  handed  Timoteo  my  heavy  six-shooter — for 
he  was  unarmed  and,  like  most  Mexicans,  deathly  afraid  of 
the  larger  variety  of  native  lions — and  started  him  off  to 


WHEREIN  I  BAG  MOUNTAIN  SHEEP 


91 


the  right  of  the  sierra  while  I  followed  a  sheep  trail  to  the 
left,  each  of  us  in  search  of  some  break  in  the  cliffs  where 
an  ascent  might  be  made.  An  old  Kaliwa  Indian  once  ex- 
plained to  me  the  reason  for  the  puzzling  numbers  of  broad, 
well  worn  sheep  trails  in  Lower  California  by  saying  that  in 
his  father's  day  the  mountain  sheep  roamed  in  great  droves 
over  the  sierras  until  of  a  sudden  a  terrible  pestilence  came 
among  them,  nearly  exterminating  the  rams  and  killing  the 
ewes  by  the  thousands. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  brought  me  to  a  point  where  the 
trail  had  been  completely  blocked  by  a  landslide  from  a  shal- 
low arroyo  above.  I  clambered  over  the  boulders  and 
loose  shale  and  sauntered  along.  Within  reach  of  my  right 
hand  rose  the  high  cliffs,  to  my  left  yawned  a  vast  moun- 
tain abyss,  a  full  league  across,  and  beyond  rose  great  vol- 
canic cones  and  mesas.  There  was  grandeur  enough  in 
the  view  to  turn  one's  head,  so  I  promptly  sat  down  to  con- 
sider my  surroundings;  my  glance  at  the  same  time  chanced 
to  wander  upward  just  at  the  right  moment  to  see  a  fine  ram 
walk  out  upon  a  projecting  crag,  beyond  and  far  above  me, 
and  proceed  to  scan  the  abyss.  He  was  too  far  away  for  a 
shot  and  my  efforts  to  locate  him  in  the  finder  of  my  camera 
were  vain.  It  was  good  just  to  watch  him,  however.  He 
was  careless  of  his  dizzy  position  and,  though  plainly  aware 
of  my  existence,  he  seemed  unable  either  to  place  me  or  to 
decide  what  kind  of  a  creature  I  was.  Eventually  he  con- 
cluded that  there  was  nothing  to  worry  over,  and  turning 
about  face,  most  deliberately  walked  out  of  sight.  As  he 
disappeared  the  morning  sunlight  brought  out  his  glistening 
white  sides  and  across  my  mind  flashed  the  thought: — far 
above  on  that  untrodden  mesa,  there  is  a  wild  goat!  and 
then: — that  wild  goat  you  must  shoot. 

Beyond  me  there  was  no  prospect  of  ascent.  I  turned 
back  to  the  pile  of  shale  and  looked  up.    The  outlook  was 


92      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


bad.  There  was  no  help  for  it,  however,  and  I  began 
swarming  up  among  the  broken  cliffs  following  the  course  of 
the  landslide.  A  friend  of  mine,  a  Scotch  big  game  hunter, 
once  said  that  no  man  placing  too  high  a  valuation  on  his 
neck  should  never  hunt  big-horn  in  Mexico,  and  that  only 
bachelors,  or  men  with  wives  well  adapted  to  widow's  weeds 
should  follow  such  venturesome  creatures  at  all.  There's 
sense  in  his  statement.  It  was  a  bad  climb;  looking  down 
was  out  of  the  question.  From  childhood  I've  roamed  the 
mountains — thank  God  for  the  free  exhilaration  of  their 
heights — but  this  climb  was  about  the  worst  I  have  ever 
undertaken.  After  having  rebelliously  concluded  that  my 
neck  was  forfeit  and  the  goat  lost,  I  gratefully  surprised 
myself  by  attaining  the  crest  of  the  cliffs,  where  I  recovered 
my  breath,  pressed  a  cartridge  into  the  chamber  of  my  car- 
bine— it's  foolish  to  tackle  bad  climbs  with  a  cartridge  in 
the  chamber — and  looked  around.  Before  me  stretched  a 
long  narrow  mesa,  covered  with  volcanic  rock  through  which 
sheep  trails  criss-crossed  to  the  right  and  left.  Stray  blades 
of  grass  and  two  or  three  scrubby  bushes  were  in  sight.  A 
small  dry  arroyo  marked  the  bottom  of  a  single  swale  in 
the  mesa.  No  goat  or  sheep  was  in  evidence.  Seemingly 
I  was  on  the  roof  of  the  world — and  it  was  a  deserted  world. 

I  went  slowly  forward,  drawing  in  great  breaths  of  the 
air  and  looking  carefully  for  game.  Sheep  love  to  sun 
themselves  beside  a  boulder  or  to  meditate  in  some  shallow 
cave.  Soon  I  reached  the  place  where  the  goat  or  sheep 
had  been.  It  was  as  dizzy  a  spot  as  the  overhanging  rock  off 
Glacier  Point  above  the  Yosemite  Valley.  A  foot  or  two 
outward  advance  satisfied  my  curiosity  and  then,  as  I  peered 
over,  a  rolling  stone — the  bane  of  many  a  poor  buck  and 
sheep — caught  my  attention  and  I  looked  up  to  see,  not  a 
goat,  but  a  lordly  ram  three  hundred  yards  distant  making 
for  the  swale.    I  was  crouching  on  the  crag.    Up  came 


WHEREIN  I  BAG  MOUNTAIN  SHEEP  93 


my  left  knee,  down  upon  it  dropped  my  left  elbow,  the  palm 
of  my  left  hand  closed  upon  the  carbine  barrel  and  the  sport 
began. 

As  the  first  shot  rang  out  two  more  sheep  suddenly  ap- 
peared and  rushed  away  in  the  wake  of  the  leader.  If  you 
are  fond  of  Nature,  kindly  reader,  imagine  yourself  on  a 
projecting  crag  with  a  mighty  abyss  below  and  range  on 
range  of  wild,  barren  sierras  beyond;  a  golden  sun  tinting 
the  world  and  warming  your  blood  and  Dame  Nature  in  her 
grandest,  most  majestic  mood  pausing  beside  you.  If  your 
life  is  dear  to  you  imagine  yourself  filled  with  vigor,  draw- 
ing in  deep  breaths  of  mountain  air,  your  muscles  swelling 
out  like  great  steel  bands  and  that  life  which  ten  minutes 
earlier  seemed  about  to  be  forfeited,  thrilling  you  with  wild 
abandon.  If  you  enjoy  shooting  imagine  yourself  on  the 
edge  of  a  mesa  with  nigh  a  league  of  fair  view  before  you 
and  three  mountain  sheep,  the  noblest  of  all  creatures  of  the 
wilderness,  bounding  away  from  you,  their  great  horns 
held  proudly  aloft,  while  your  sharp-voiced  rifle  calls  to 
them  to  halt.  The  three  conditions  were  mine;  the  sug- 
gested possibilities  were  facts;  moreover,  fifty  miles  distant 
there  was  a  mining  camp  where  men  and  women  and  chil- 
dren were  half  starving  for  meat. 

Such  moments  are  worth  living.  I  remember  regretting 
that  there  was  no  one  to  share  the  excitement  with  me  and 
feeling  certain  that  I  should  bag  all  three  sheep,  even  though 
they  had  not  faltered  an  instant  In  their  flight.  The  sec- 
ond in  the  procession,  a  cream  colored  ewe,  got  in  the  line 
of  my  sight  about  the  fifth  shot  and  I  let  drive  at  her.  The 
seventh  shot  was  directed  at  the  third  sheep,  a  yearling  ram. 
At  the  sixth  report  the  leader,  already  near  the  edge  of  the 
swale,  sank  in  his  tracks;  thereupon  the  other  two,  appar- 
ently Imagining  that  the  attack  came  from  the  front,  turned 
about  face  and  trotted  laboriously  toward  me.    My  right 


94      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

arm  always  trembles  when  I  am  '^shelling"  big  game,  and 
at  this  unexpected  happening  it  wobbled  disgracefully.  For- 
tunately an  empty  magazine  created  a  temporary  diversion. 
As  I  pressed  in  fresh  cartridges  I  noticed  that  the  barrel 
was  decidedly  hot. 

After  another  shot  I  put  down  the  carbine  and  took  a 
camera  snap  at  the  mesa  and  the  sheep;  then  the  carbine 
resumed  its  sharp  play,  snarling  quickly  like  an  enraged 
hound.  The  cream  colored  sheep  dropped  suddenly  all  in 
a  heap  and  the  young  ram  at  once  rushed  diagonally  across 
the  mesa,  his  right  side  plainly  exposed  to  me.  As  I  again 
reloaded  the  magazine,  the  heat  of  the  barrel  blistered  my 
thumb  and  first  finger.  At  the  same  time  I  heard  the  sharp, 
discordant  notes  of  two  ravens.  ^^Sangre,  sangre^^  (blood, 
blood),  as  the  Mexican  hunters  interpret  the  cry,  and  on 
hearing  it  in  the  sierras  they  will  aver  success  with  all  the 
surety  of  a  gillie  hearing  the  same  sound  in  the  stalking  sea- 
son on  the  Scotch  heather.  Certainly  the  Mexican  raven 
has  a  remarkable  faculty  of  being  on  hand  at  the  killing  and 
when  he  deserts  you,  rest  assured  there  are  no  sheep  in  the 
vicinity. 

The  young  ram,  after  drawing  eight  bullets  in  his  direc- 
tion, disappeared  from  sight  over  the  farther  side  of  the 
mesa;  thereupon  I  climbed  off  my  crag  and  proceeded  to 
examine  my  game.  Perhaps  two  or  three  minutes  had 
been  occupied  by  my  shooting;  it  had  seemed  an  immeasura- 
ble time.  The  cream  colored  ewe  I  found  stone  dead, 
pierced  by  three  bullets.  Although  doomed  by  two  fatal 
wounds  the  blood  of  which  besmirshed  the  white  blotches 
on  his  tawny  sides,  the  big  ram  was  endeavoring  to  rise  when 
I  approached  him.  His  majestic  head  and  massive  curling 
horns  held  defiantly  aloft  and  his  greenish  eyes  scintillating 
with  rage  made  me  involuntarily  feel  for  him  the  respect 
that  bravery  and  noble  mien  ever  command.    While  elation 


WHEREIN  I  BAG  MOUNTAIN  SHEEP 


95 


is  naturally  the  first  sensation  of  every  sheep  hunter  upon 
killing  his  game,  it  must  give  way  to  pity  and  regret  as  the 
grand,  independent  creature  sinks  limp  and  lifeless  before 
him.  What  hunter  of  the  high  sierras  can  help  having  a 
feeling  of  comradeship  for  the  ram  that  shares  with  him 
the  solitary  fastnesses  and  puts  up  so  brave  a  race  for  life ! 
Silent,  and  even  ashamed,  I  turned  away  and  the  mighty 
ram  sank  down,  gasped  shortly  and  was  dead. 

A  trail  of  blood  led  across  the  mesa  to  the  yearhng;  he 
had  reached  the  farther  edge  with  seven  bullets  through 
him !  A  .30-.30  is  no  weapon  for  an  animal  of  such  tremen- 
dous vitality  as  the  big-horn. 

Eventually  Timoteo,  wild-eyed  over  my  rapid-fire  bom- 
bardment, arrived,  having  found  a  fairly  passable  ascent 
from  his  side  of  the  sierra.  There  are  three  ways  of  carry- 
ing a  sheep :  one  is  to  sling  him  to  your  side  and  give  up 
after  a  few  rods;  another,  is  to  carry  him  on  your  shoulders, 
the  left  legs  and  the  right  legs  being  tied  before  your  left 
and  right  shoulders,  respectively;  the  third  way  is  to  have 
some  one  else  do  the  carrying.  I  adopted  the  second  method, 
but  for  comfort  I  would  recommend  the  third.  By  the  time 
we  had  carried  and  dragged  the  sheep  down  to  our  pack 
mule  the  afternoon  was  far  advanced,  our  shoulders  ached 
cruelly,  and  we  were  exhausted.  And  how  the  mule  ever 
scrambled  down  in  the  darkness  among  rocks  and  boulders 
is  beyond  me. 

Finally,  after  traveling  for  hours,  lighting  our  way  by 
firing  dead  maguay  stalks  and  dried  fan-palm  boughs,  we 
piled  the  meat  upon  a  rock  for  the  night,  turned  loose  the 
mule  and  followed  him  to  camp,  carrying  the  sheep-heads 
suspended  over  our  shoulders.  It  was  a  weird  ending  of  an 
exciting  day:  at  regular  intervals,  high  up  among  the  rugged 
cliffs,  smouldered  the  maguay  plants,  winking  eyes  In  the 
cloaking  darkness;  In  the  trough  of  the  arroyo  down  which 


96      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

we  picked  our  way  tall  ghostly  palms  raised  high  their 
shadowy  heads,  their  flaming  boughs  lighting  up  the  somber 
depths  of  the  arroyo  and  bringing  out  in  sharp  outline  our 
slowly  moving  figures. 

And  thus,  with  an  abundance  of  supplies,  with  great  pans 
of  wild  honey,  with  wild  mutton  hanging  to  cool  in  the  old 
Mission,  with  my  few  selected  books,  with  my  mozos  antici- 
pating my  every  wish,  with  the  atmosphere  of  romance  and 
early  history  about  me,  I  spent  six  delightful  days,  so  verit- 
able a  king  that  I  made  note  in  my  journal  that  there  was 
nothing  particularly  farther  that  I  desired,  unless  it  be  that 
I  might  continue  forever  in  this  retired  spot  in  the  rugged 
wilderness. 

With  a  sigh  and  many  a  regret,  I  left  my  kingdom  of 
Santa  Maria  on  the  morning  of  the  22nd  of  February.  By 
the  vilest  pretense  of  a  trail  and  through  the  rockiest  coun- 
try that  I  had  ever  experienced,  we  climbed  out  from  the 
arroyo  and  passed  over  a  sierra  ridge  to  the  southeast.  It 
is  small  wonder  that  horses  are  never  used  with  any  advan- 
tage in  this  region.  Coming  down  to  a  plain,  we  traveled 
for  ten  leagues  over  a  most  rocky  and  barren  stretch  where 
there  was  virtually  no  trail,  unless  the  line  of  graves  along 
the  way  be  considered  a  camino.  Graves  of  men  who  died 
gasping  for  water,  graves,  not  merely  of  foreigners  but  of 
Mexicans  as  well,  and  even  one  of  an  Indian,  for  these  were 
the  dread  Llanos  de  Santa  Maria  (Plains  of  St.  Mary) 
which  have  exacted  a  frightful  toll  from  those  who  have 
ventured  out  upon  their  arid  stretches.  San  Franciscito,  or 
^Xittle  San  Francisco,^'  lying  on  the  southern  edge  of  these 
plains,  proved,  though  located  on  the  map,  to  be  nothing 
but  a  few  old  arastras,  a  small  mining  shaft  and  a  water- 
hole  from  which  we  were  driven  In  disgust  by  the  presence 
of  a  dead  coyote.  A  few  miles  beyond  San  Franciscito,  we 
found  a  deserted  miner's  shack  and  a  well,  and  out  from  this 


WHEREIN  I  BAG  MOUNTAIN  SHEEP  97 


place  there  was  a  road  leading  toward  the  gulf  coast.  Sev- 
eral ragged  trails  led  off  from  this  highway. 

For  a  time  we  were  at  a  loss  concerning  what  course  to 
pursue,  fearing  lest  unwittingly  we  might  pass  the  mining 
camp  of  Calamajuet,*  which  I  was  desirous  of  visiting. 
Finally,  leaving  my  Mexicans  with  my  outfit,  I  rode  on  a 
few  miles,  alone,  and  passing  through  a  gap  in  the  hills, 
came  unexpectedly  upon  Calamajuet.  Yes,  there  was  the 
house  of  the  proprietor,  my  friend  Senor  Dick,  with  its  thick 
stone  walls  and  palm  thatched  roof ;  off  to  the  right  stood  a 
mining  engineer's  tent  and  over  near  the  arroyo  a  shack 
made  of  ocotilla  stakes  and  thatch,  and  in  this  shack  Mexi- 
can women  and  their  Indian  helpers  were  serving  a  hearty 
lunch  to  the  men.  Senor  Dick,  it  seemed,  was  absent  at  his 
other  home  near  the  playa,  or  roadstead,  where  he  was 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  a  cargo  of  provisions  and  machinery 
from  Guaymas.  His  head  man,  who  greeted  me,  knew 
little  English;  my  Spanish  was  not  extensive,  and  as  I  had 
taken  him  from  lunch,  his  temper  was  rather  uncertain.  In 
consequence  our  interview  was  growing  stormy  when  a  tall 
blond  chap,  in  corduroys,  hobbled  out  from  the  shack  which 
served  as  a  dining  room,  and  accosted  me  in  English. 

With  his  thick,  gold-rimmed  eye-glasses,  carefully  parted 
curly  hair,  his  neatly  cropped  beard  and  eminently 
respectable  moustache,  with  his  well-tied  necktie  and  gen- 
eral aspect  of  the  proprieties,  I  knew  in  an  instant  that  this 
new-comer  was  one  of  those  wanderers  who  go  forth  from 
the  British  Isles  to  the  "uttermost  parts  of  the  earth"  in 
pursuit  of  big  game.  His  opportune  appearance  cleared  the 
atmosphere  and  I  soon  had  my  outfit  at  Calamajuet.  In 
the  two  or  three  days  which  I  spent  at  the  camp,  awaiting 
Senor  Dick's  arrival,  I  became  acquainted  with  the  young 
Britisher  and  learned  that  he  was  from  the  north  of  Scot- 
land, had  served  in  the  Boer  war,  smashed  a  shoulder  in 


*  Pronounced  Calamawhay. — A.  W.  N. 


98      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

polo,  had  had  African  fever,  and,  for  the  time  being,  was 
most  decidedly  under  the  weather,  thanks  to  cactus  thorns 
and  a  diet  restricted,  for  several  weeks  past,  to  meat  and 
hardtack.  We  soon  made  up  a  compact,  agreeing  to  travel 
southward  together,  for  he  was  anxious  to  see  more  of  the 
Waist  of  the  Peninsula.  Moreover,  his  purse  having  mys- 
teriously disappeared  early  in  the  month,  he  had  a  most 
natural  desire  to  reach  Guaymas  and  get  In  touch  with  his 
bank  account.  Later,  finding  that  he  wore  well  on  the  trail 
(than  which  I  can  think  of  no  higher  compliment),  I  ex- 
pressed my  appreciation  by  giving  him  a  nick-name,  sinking 
his  very  proper  Scotch  name  beneath  that  of  the  ''Laird." 

The  afternoon  of  the  26th,  Senor  Dick  arrived  on  the 
scene  and  shortly  thereafter  two  American  miners,  ''Senor 
Santiago"  and  "Charley"  Howard,  put  in  an  appearance. 
Santiago,  an  agreeable,  widely-traveled  man  of  thirty,  was 
in  high  spirits,  having  just  made  a  good  "strike,"  which  had 
instantly  filled  his  mind  with  visons  of  gaieties  in  New  York, 
Paris  and  Vienna.  To  the  Simon  Pure  prospector,  gold  is 
made  simply  for  "blowing  in"  purposes.  Howard,  for  years 
a  resident  of  the  Peninsula,  had  come  to  Calamajuet  to  over- 
see the  installation  of  the  expected  mining  machinery.  Santi- 
ago's spirits  were  infectious,  and  during  the  evening  he  and 
Seiior  Dick,  the  Laird,  Howard,  Sanchez  (a  young  Mexican 
mining  engineer),  and  I  chatted,  told  stories  and  related 
hunting  experiences  until  long  past  midnight. 

Santiago  began  the  yarning  by  telling  me,  in  all  serious- 
ness and  doubtless  with  a  foundation  of  truth,  how  he  awoke 
one  morning  in  the  sierras,  half-starved  and  miles  from 
everywhere,  to  find  a  welcome  supply  of  rice  in  the  folds  of 
his  blankets  where  it  had  been  stored  during  the  night  by 
an  industrious  pair  of  pack-rats,  and  how,  later,  it  developed 
that  a  Mexican,  sleeping  ten  miles  distant,  that  very  night 
had  mysteriously  lost  an  equal  amount  of  rice. 


WHEREIN  I  BAG  MOUNTAIN  SHEEP  99 


I  countered  at  once  by  relating  the  story  of  the  credulous 
Indian  which  I  had  obtained  from  an  eighteenth  century 
Peninsula  chronicle.  Here  it  is :  A  Padre,  having  obtained 
some  particularly  good  bread,  dispatched  an  Indian  courier 
bearing  a  loaf  and  a  note  to  the  Padre  of  a  neighboring  mis- 
sion. On  the  way  the  courier  sat  down  to  rest  beside  a 
water-hole;  the  bread  and  note  he  placed  upon  a  large  stone. 
Suddenly  the  pangs  of  hunger  assailed  the  Indian  and  he 
devoured  the  bread  to  the  last  crumb.  The  note,  however, 
was  faithfully  delivered.  Upon  its  perusal  the  Padre  natu- 
rally inquired  for  the  bread.  At  this  the  Indian  was  dumb- 
founded, but,  as  he  recovered  his  self-possession,  he  denied 
all  knowledge  of  any  bread.  A  week  later  the  first  Padre 
dispatched  the  same  courier  with  another  note  and  another 
loaf.  Again  the  Indian  stopped  beside  the  water-hole,  again 
hunger  came  upon  him  and  once  more  the  Padre  at  the 
neighboring  mission  received  only  a  note.  This  time  the 
worthy  man  was  angered  and  accordingly  berated  the  un- 
trustworthy courier  severely,  whereupon  the  Indian,  in  be- 
wilderment rather  than  shame,  spoke  out,  "I  confess. 
Padre,"  said  he,  **that  the  first  letter  told  the  truth  for 
it  did  see  me  eat  the  bread,  but  this  last  one  is  a  story- 
teller, affirming  what  it  did  not  see.  Padre,  before  eating 
this  last  loaf,  I  carefully  hid  the  letter  under  a  large  stone, 
where  it  could  not,  by  any  means,  have  seen  me  eating  of 
the  bread." 

Santiago  laughed.  **Give  me  a  whole  new  hand,"  he 
said,  ''perhaps,  then,  I'll  recover." 

**Did  you  really  find  that  in  a  book,  an  old  book?"  asked 
Senor  Dick,  in  all  seriousness. 

''Certainly,"  I  replied,  "in  a  book  dated  about  1789." 

"I  expect  It  IS  a  true  story,  then,"  said  he,  "for  an  old 
Indian  at  San  Ignacio  once  repeated  It  to  me  as  having  come 
from  his  grandfather  when  he  was  a  child." 


lOO     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


*That  is  the  way  of  it/'  remarked  '^Charley''  Howard, 
'*all  the  old  Indians  confess  to  Senor  Dick.  They  think  him 
equal  to  any  Padre.  You  know  the  paisanos  (natives)  think 
that  a  medico  is  the  whole  show,  so  after  I  had  cut  a  rattle- 
snake bitten  hand  from  a  man,  using  for  the  operation  a 
meat  saw  and  a  razor,  I  quite  plumed  myself  on  my  stand- 
ing in  a  community  where  licensed  physicians  are  unknown. 
Then  I  came  here  into  the  Waist  of  the  Peninsula  and  found 
that  my  name  had  no  weight  beside  Senor  Dick's.  'He  would 
have  saved  the  arm,'  said  the  paisanos  on  hearing  of  my 
famous  exploit,  and  then  they  related  some  of  his  surgical 
operations.  I'll  give  just  one  instance.  A  man  was  bitten 
by  a  salamankaser,  a  venomous  kind  of  lizard.  His  friends 
howled  mournfully  their  sorrow,  carried  the  man  some  dis- 
tance away  and  left  him,  supplied  with  food  and  water,  to 
meet  his  horrible  death.  Along  came  Senor  Dick.  At  once 
he  noted  the  tainted  air.  *What  dead  animal  are  you  leav- 
ing about?'  he  inquired.  They  told  him  of  the  man  and 
that  he  was  not  dead.  'Huh,'  said  Senor  Dick,  'you  are 
children.'  Then  he  visited  the  cave.  The  bite  had  been 
on  the  arm  and  the  discolored,  decaying  flesh  was  already 
falling  away  in  chunks  before  the  ravages  of  the  poison. 
'Get  me  water,  earth  mold,  clay  and  boards,'  roared  the 
Senor,  in  quick  anger.  The  paisanos  obeyed  and,  after 
scraping,  cutting  and  cleaning  the  arm,  Senor  Dick  plastered 
it  with  wet  clay  and  mold  and  then  tied  the  boards  about 
arm  and  plaster.  The  man  is  at  work  to-day  with  that 
arm — it's  wizened,  of  course — and  Senor  Dick  is  the  Grand 
Padre  of  the  Waist  of  the  Peninsula." 

The  good  natured  Englishman  joined  In  the  laugh  that 
went  around  as  Howard  sprung  this  new  name  on  him. 
"You  are  jollying  me,"  he  chuckled,  "but  I  do  love  to 
carve." 


CHAPTER  IX 


WITH  THE  LAIRD  ALONG  EL  CAMINO  REAL 

FILLED  with  eager  anticipations  of  adventures  in  the 
wilderness,  the  Laird  and  I  bade  farewell  to  the 
mining  camp  of  Calamajuet  and  turned  southward, 
together.  Two  subsidized  fellow  travelers,  Senor  Rita 
Otero  and  his  genial  spouse,  Cochimi  Indians  homeward 
bound,  accompanied  us.  With  my  boy  Jesiis,  four  pack 
burros  and  a  colt  trailing  along  with  us,  our  aggregate  of 
man  and  beast  formed  a  caravan  of  no  mean  length.  By 
the  presence  of  the  Senora  a  new  element,  the  softening 
feminine  atmosphere,  was  added  to  our  rugged  life.  I 
casually  remarked  on  this  to  the  Laird.  He  showed  no 
enthusiasm,  however.  A  fluttering  bandana  covered  her 
head;  an  expansive  smile  wreathed  her  kindly  face;  a  light 
red  **mother  Hubbard"  draped  her  figure;  teguas,  or  native 
shoes,  completed  the  costume.  She  occupied  the  right  side 
of  her  burro,  a  manner  of  riding  entirely  new  to  us.  Her 
novel  seat  in  the  saddle  she  maintained  by  resting  her  right 
foot  in  the  right  stirrup  and  swinging  her  left  knee  over  the 
pommel.  Despite  the  shortcomings  of  her  training  and 
apparel — the  Laird,  in  his  extreme  modesty,  blushingly 
meditated  upon  presenting  her  with  a  pair  of  socks — the 
good  Senora  was  kindly  and  eminently  matronly. 

We  entered  El  Camino  Real  a  short  mile  from  the  min- 
ing camp.  Americans  are  wont  to  think  of  this  Royal 
Camino  as  a  broad  roadway.    It  Is  not.    It  Is  historic.  It 

lOI 


I02     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


is  romantically  interesting,  it  is  deeply  worn,  it  extends 
countless  leagues,  but  it  is  a  trail,  a  bridle  path  a  scant  yard 
in  width.  In  mission  days  sections  of  this  Way  assuredly 
were  roads  of  generous  breadth,  and  yet  he  who  now  would 
truly  describe  El  Camino  Real  must  picture  a  deeply  worn, 
ancient  way,  historic  and  fascinating,  but  narrow — a  long, 
long  narrow  trail. 

Continuing  steadily  southward  we  passed  to  the  right  of 
the  ruins  of  Calamyget  Mission,  some  three  leagues  and  a 
half  from  Senor  Dick's  camp,  and  made  camp  for  the  first 
night  (February  the  27th)  at  an  old  stone  corral  two 
leagues  farther  on.  In  this  latitude  the  old  padres  located 
on  their  maps  a  spot  styled  *'San  Francisco."  Doubtless 
we  were  in  San  Francisco — only  we  didn't  know  it!  A 
warm  spring  of  arsenic  water  was  near  at  hand.  This  wa- 
ter the  Oteros  declined  to  drink,  advising  us  that  their 
people  had  always  deemed  it  possessed  of  dangerous  prop- 
erties. After  ascertaining  the  presence  of  the  arsenic,  I 
laughed  at  their  fears  and  astounded  them  by  saying  that 
American  girls  not  infrequently  enhanced  the  whiteness  of 
their  complexion  by  drinking  from  such  springs.  Later 
Jesus  tasted  the  water,  whereupon  the  Senora  promptly 
accused  him  of  endeavoring  to  change  his  color. 

That  our  conversation  might  not  be  understood  by  our 
peaple  who  had  heard  enough  English  to  misconstrue  what 
we  might  be  saying,  the  Laird  and  I  lapsed  into  French — • 
and  such  French!  His  had  been  picked  up  in  Cambridge 
days  on  sundry  trips  to  the  Latin  Quarter  in  Paris,  and 
mine  was  commensurate  with  the  reading,  a  dozen  years 
earlier,  of  *Xe  Roi  de  Montagne."  It  served  its  purpose, 
however.  The  Laird  was  pleasant  company,  a  thoroughly 
alert  explorer  and  a  most  delightful  woman-hater.  To  my 
intense  amusement,  he  remarked  most  simply,  while  speak- 
ing of  life  in  English  country  houses:  *'It's  just  eating,  danc- 


WITH  THE  LAIRD  ALONG  EL  CAMINO  REAL  103 


ing,  piano-playing,  dressing,  ladies,  flirting,  and  all  such 
damned  nonsense." 

Although  the  country  through  which  we  passed  was 
barren  and  rugged,  the  mountains  frequently  rising  to  five 
and  six  thousand  feet,  the  frequency  of  arroyos  and  the  long 
stretches  of  mesa  enabled  us  to  make  fair  headway.  The 
surface  of  the  country  was  a  pedregal,  or  mosaic  of  stones. 
Every  form  of  plant  or  tree  life  bristled  with  thorns.  The 
visnaga,  or  barrel-shaped  cactus,  green  fluted,  devoid  of 
leaves  and  armed  with  orderly  arranged  ranks  of  fishhook- 
like thorns,  dotted  the  mesas  and  stood  sentinel  along  the 
arroyos.  Giant  cardones,  or  tree  cacti,  gracefully  erect  or 
misshaped  and  fantastic,  cast  the  only  shade  found  along 
the  camino.  The  trunk  of  this  cactus  is  from  one  to  three 
meters  in  circumference  and  sends  forth  and  upward  from 
two  or  three  to  twelve  or  fifteen  gigantic  columnar  branches. 
These  branches  are  leafless  and  of  a  greenish-brown  color; 
like  the  visnaga,  they  are  fluted  and  thorny.  Here  and 
there  prostrate  cardones  revealed,  in  death,  their  interior 
structure:  white  rods,  gathered  together  like  a  bunch  of 
faggots,  and  surrounded  by  and  surrounding  the  dead  pith. 
Overtowering  the  cardones  were  frequent  groves  of  the 
slender  cirio  or  milapa,  an  inviting  and  most  strange  cactus, 
indigenous  to  the  Waist  of  the  Peninsula.  This  peculiar  and 
graceful  tree  grows  to  a  height  of  sixty  or  seventy  feet 
without  a  single  branch.  Its  bark  is  not  unlike  that  of  the 
aspen;  its  Inner  pith  frequently  decays,  making  magnificent 
retreats  for  birds,  snakes  or  hiving  bees.  Again  and  again 
we  would  bow  low  in  our  saddles  or  slash  quickly  with  ready 
machetes  as  the  thorny  bough  of  some  ocotilla  swayed 
across  the  camino.  This  cactus  sends  upward  from  Its 
tentacle  roots  a  circle  of  greenish,  thorny  stalks  that  sway 
in  the  breeze  like  so  many  sinuous  snakes.  In  the  course  of 
many  years  these  stalks  attain  lengths  of  from  five  to  ten 


I04     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


metres;  in  the  spring  time  they  blossom  out  with  scarlet 
tassels.  Encroaching  close  upon  the  camino  the  black, 
snake-hke  limbs  of  the  tart  pithaya  or  tajua,  armed  with 
needle-like  thorns,  were  a  constant  warning  for  us  not  to 
stray  from  the  trail,  while  its  close  ally,  the  cholla,  most  pro- 
voking of  the  whole  cactus  tribe,  again  and  again  dropped 
its  bristling  sections  in  the  way  of  the  fetlocks  of  our  ani- 
mals. The  branches  of  the  cholla  are  composed  of  various 
subdivisions,  each  two  or  three  inches  in  length,  an  Inch  in 
diameter  and  covered  with  innumerable  thorns,  both  large 
and  small.  As  these  sections  not  only  break  away  and 
cling  to  the  man  or  beast  that  touches  them  but  in  seasons 
drop  of  their  own  accord,  littering  the  caminos,  they  are  an 
ever  present  menace  to  the  traveler.  To  the  birds,  how- 
ever, the  cholla  evidently  is  a  blessing,  for  again  and  again 
we  observed  their  nests  built  beyond  the  reach  of  predatory 
snakes  in  the  midst  of  protecting  cholla  branches. 

But  even  though  frequent  and  unmistakable  signs  of 
mountain  sheep  were  to  be  seen  along  our  way,  water  was 
as  scarce  as  cacti  were  abundant.  In  the  thirty  leagues 
southward  from  the  mining  camp  we  passed  but  one  good 
watering  place,  the  Agua  de  Youbai,  a  well  several  rods  to 
the  left  of  the  camino  and  with  nothing  to  indicate  its  pres- 
ence. On  the  high  mountain  summits  above  this  water, 
according  to  Otero,  the  padres  had  trees  felled  and  used  the 
timber  for  doorways  and  casements  of  the  Missions  of  San 
Borja  and  Calamyget.  During  the  day  time  our  people, 
fearful  of  thirst,  were  all  activity,  urging  on  the  burros  to 
surprising  speed  for  such  animals.  Their  energies  were 
spasmodic,  however. 

The  second  evening,  after  unpacking,  Otero  sat  restfully 
on  his  heels  and  watched  his  wife,  sitting  restfully  on  her 
heels  and  watching  him.  The  Laird  and  I  at  once  pitched 
our  tent  and  Jesus  gathered  wood,  all  of  which  seemed  to 


The  Agua  de  Youbai 


A  rocky  section  of  El  Camino  Real 

(Reproduced  from  "The  Mother  of  California/'  by  courtesy  of  the  publishers 
Paul  Elder  &  Company) 


1 


WITH  THE  LAIRD  ALONG  EL  CAMINO  REAL  105 


please  our  couple;  to  their  further  evident  approval,  we 
next  made  a  fire.  Then  the  Lairds'  Scotch  burst  forth.  But 
although  he  verbally  trampled  all  over  Otero  for  being  so 
confoundedly  slow  and  dull,  the  Indian  merely  smiled  and 
failed  to  understand.  The  ^^Madam'' — as  we  had  named 
his  spouse — for  her  part,  smiled,  also,  and  added  several 
spoonfuls  of  lard  to  the  tortillas — a  favorite,  detestable 
trick  of  hers.  Things  grew  lively  and  the  festive  Otero 
flashed  sharp  glances  at  my  companion.  At  this  I  ostenta- 
tiously opened  up  and  dusted  my  ferocious  six-shooter  and, 
intoning,  padre-fashion,  recited  liberally  from  the  ^^Beatus 
ille^^  of  Horace.  Wide-eyed,  and  sure  that  I  was  some  sort 
of  a  Padre — a  heavily  armed  one,  too — the  devout  Indians 
crossed  themselves.  The  tension  of  the  situation  relaxed, 
the  Laird  retired  to  the  tent. 

After  he  had  made  himself  comfortable  within  its  narrow 
limits,  I  entered,  closing  the  flaps  securely.  Scraping  aside 
a  few  stones,  I  threw  down  four  mountain  sheep  hides  and 
over  them  spread  out  my  blankets  and  serapa.  Quickly 
undressing  I  snuggled  into  the  simple  bed,  for  the  night  was 
cold.  Already  my  companion  had  tied  a  lighted  candle  to 
a  maguay  leaf  and  jammed  the  thorn  end  into  the  earth 
between  our  shoulders.  Although  I  could  see  that  he  was 
admiring  his  candlestick,  I  purposely  failed  to  notice  it. 
He  shortly  sought  to  arouse  me. 

**Such  an  uncivilized  American  savage,  traveling  without 
a  sleeping-bag,"  he  announced. 

**Such  a  pampered  Scot,  overladen  with  a  forty-pound 
sleeping  bag,"  I  retorted.  *  Why  doesn't  he  carry  a  feather 
bed?  Will  he  use  his  half-pint  share  of  water  for  his  morn- 
ing tub?" 

He  pondered  deeply.  *'Have  a  smoke?"  he  ventured 
finally. 

''No,  but  rd  like  your  Kipling." 


Io6     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


''And  I  your  Balzac.'' 

For  a  moment  there  was  much  fumbling  in  the  pockets  of 
his  sleeping  bag  and  among  the  compartments  of  my  saddle- 
bags. Then  the  books,  being  produced,  were  read  with 
every  satisfaction  until  sounds  of  slumber  without  and  sput- 
tering candle  within  announced  proper  time  for  sleep. 

''Good  night,"  I  muttered.    "Your  gun  handy?'' 

We  traveled  early  and  we  traveled  late,  for  where  there 
is  no  water  one  dares  not  linger.  In  the  evenings  Otero  and 
I  usually  dismounted  and  stretched  ourselves  by  leading  the 
advance  at  a  jog-trot.  South  of  Youbai  we  crossed  the  taper- 
ing ends  of  two  level  valleys  extending  down  towards  the 
Gulf  and  containing  several  thousand  acres  with  grass  and 
brush.  According  to  Otero  a  few  antelope  ranged  in  this 
section.  The  Laird  considered  these  valleys  similar  to  the 
veldts  of  South  Africa.  Like  the  Llanos  de  Buenos  Ayres 
and  the  Llanos  de  Santa  Maria,  which  are  also  inhabited  by 
small  bands  of  antelope — this  region  is  barren  of  springs. 
After  passing  beyond  these  valleys  we  went  through  a  suc- 
cession of  hills  well  covered  with  undergrowth  and  small 
trees.  We  saw  several  deer,  or  rather  our  guides  (  ?)  did, 
for  having  burros,  the  Oteros  and  Jesus  usually  managed  to 
keep  half  a  league  in  our  lead,  so  that  their  guiding  serv- 
ices were  of  the  minimum  variety.  From  these  hills  we 
gradually  ascended  into  higher  mountains,  each  of  which 
Otero  termed  the  "Cerro  Colorado."  During  this  entire 
forced  march  the  nights  were  crisply  cool. 

The  third  evening  out  the  Laird  and  I  talked  over  the 
alluring  details  of  a  future  hunt  together. 

''There's  a  jolly  good  bit  of  country  down  south  of  Ma- 
zatlan,"  he  remarked  across  the  camp-fire. 

"Lake  Chapala  way?"  I  inquired,  snipping  a  green  and 
yellow  spider  off  my  knee. 

"Somewhat.    Just  off  the  Guadalajara  road." 


WITH  THE  LAIRD  ALONG  EL  CAMINO  REAL  107 


**Ah!  That's  where  there  are  so  many  charming  wom- 
en/' I  murmured,  smiling  indulgently,  for  even  mention  of 
the  name  Guadalajara  calls  forth  visions  of  winsome  *^nut 
brown  maids." 

*  Women!  Don't  for  Heaven's  sake  trail  them  in/'  He 
shoved  a  piece  of  maguay  fiber  into  the  coals  and  lighted  a 
cigarette  in  the  blaze.  'Tlague  take  'em,  anyway,  they're 
always  in  the  way.  It's  the  lions  we  want."  The  approv- 
ing nod  with  which  I  greeted  this  ungallant  remark  indicated 
that  I,  too,  was  in  a  slaying  mood.  For  a  time  the  two  of 
us  were  silent,  the  Laird  puffing  forth  contentful  wreaths  of 
smoke  while  I  studied  the  coals.  Suddenly  a  twig  snapped, 
sharply,  throwing  out  an  unwonted  blaze. 

**0h,  confound  that  female,  she's  at  it  again!"  I  sput- 
tered, as  the  light  showed  me  the  Madam  diligently  heap- 
ing lard  into  the  batter  for  the  morning  tortillas.  '*Hi, 
there!  No  mas  mantecar^  I  uttered  the  words  in  an 
aggressive  tone,  and  either  that,  or  the  reproof,  itself, 
brought  me  a  scowl  from  the  worthy  dame  and  a  grunt  from 
her  lord.  She  paused  in  her  labors,  however.  Otero, 
meantime,  wrinkled  his  brow  in  deep  thought. 

**Senor,  don't  you  care  for  lard?"  he  ventured,  presently 
— only  he  used  the  Spanish. 

**No,"  I  snapped  out. 

**Nor  coffee?"  he  continued. 

**No,"  I  answered,  more  unconcernedly. 

**Don't  you  care  for  mescal?"  This  he  asked  with  some 
hesitancy. 

**No,"  I  replied,  laughingly.    *^No,  I  don't  like  mescal." 

Such  strange  lack  of  appreciation  of  the  good  things  of 
life  was  altogether  too  much  for  the  Madam.  ^^Mira!'' 
(Lo,  behold!)  she  exclaimed,  rocking  herself  back  and 
forth  in  the  dim  fire  light.  ^Wo  guste  manteca,  cafe,  mes- 
cal.   Mir  a,  miraT'    For  a  moment  the  old  Cochimi  was 


lo8      CAxMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


speechless,  then  he  had  a  new  idea.  He  gave  it  immediate 
expression.  Had  I  a  substitute  for  these  luxuries;  were 
there  three  other  things  that  I  did  especially  desire?  I 
promptly  answered  in  the  affirmative.  First,  I  wanted  *^a 
buck  antelope."  But  Otero  here  interrupted,  his  eyes  shin- 
ing with  approval.  *^Ah!  excellent  meat,''  and  the  Madam 
echoed,  ^*Muy  bueno  earned  Also,  I  wanted  ^^two  big 
lions."  This  incomprehensible  desire  called  forth  an 
**Ugh!  Lions  are  very  fierce.  Bad,  bad!"  from  Otero, 
while  with  an  amazed  ^^MiraT  the  Madam  hunched  for- 
ward nearer  the  protecting  coals.  I  had  expressed,  how- 
ever, only  two  separate  wishes.  They  were  anxious  to  hear 
my  third. 

''What  shall  I  add?"  I  inquired  of  the  Laird. 

''Why,  tell  'em,"  was  the  response,  between  puffs,  "that 
you  want  some  gentle  little  maid  whose  tendrils  will  cling 
to  your  rugged  being,  whose  eyes — " 

"Cut  it,  man,  cut  it,"  I  interrupted,  laughingly.  Never- 
theless, addressing  the  expectant  Oteros  in  Spanish,  I  oracu- 
larly recited,  "A  buck  antelope,  two  big  lions — and  a  pretty 
girl."  The  climax  was  unexpected.  Otero's  mouth 
opened  in  surprise,  then  extended  in  a  wide  grin.  The 
Madam,  meantime,  chuckled,  approvingly,  repeating  my 
statement  with  many  ^^Miras!^  "That's  enough  for  the 
savage  mind  for  one  night,"  growled  the  Laird.  "Let's 
turn  in."    And  turn  in  we  did. 

Before  sleep  came,  however,  we  heard  the  old  fellow 
suggest  to  Madam  that  I  might  make  a  good  life's  partner 
for  their  younger  muchacha.  With  an  appreciative  femi- 
nine eye,  the  Madam  at  once  urged  the  claims  of  the  Laird 
as  a  blond  and  more  handsome  man,  but  the  calculating 
Otero  silenced  her  by  replying  that  '^jE/  Americano'^  could 
kill  the  most  came,  which  was  of  far  greater  Importance 
than  looks.    The  Laird  felt  hurt.    During  his  convales- 


WITH  THE  LAIRD  ALONG  EL  CAMINO  REAL  109 


cence  in  the  States,  after  his  polo  injury,  society  girls  whom 
he  had  not  even  met  had  showered  him  with  flowers.  Here, 
when  he  was  too  crippled  to  hunt  mountain  sheep,  local  so- 
ciety cast  him  coolly  aside. 

On  the  2nd  day  of  March,  we  reached  the  Mission  of 
San  Francisco  de  Borja,  an  unusual  stone  structure,  which 
unexpectedly  loomed  before  us  as  we  came  around  a  moun- 
tain spur.  With  its  magnificent  carved  stone  portals,  its 
high  battlements  and  extensive  adobe  outbuildings  and  cor- 
rals, certainly  grim  San  Borja  is  a  most  unexpected  as  well 
as  an  impressive  mission.  On  nearer  approach  we  found 
that  the  iglesia  was  built  entirely  of  hewn  stones,  many  of 
them  extremely  large  and  all  firmly  keyed  in  place.  Even 
the  lofty  vaulted  roof  was  constructed  of  stone  and  cement, 
with  massive  keyed  arches  supporting  it. 

Otero,  who  seemed  to  be  a  self-appointed  guardian  on  the 
mission,  directed  us  to  take  our  choice  of  any  of  the  adobe 
outhouses.  Accordingly,  selecting  one  that  seemed  clean 
and  was  heavily  carpeted  with  green  grass,  we  pitched  our 
tent  within  its  walls,  for  San  Borja  is  a  place  of  much  dew 
and  the  mission  out-houses  have  long  been  unroofed.  The 
Oteros  resided  in  a  shack,  built  against  the  wall  of  the 
iglesia  and  within  its  patio.  After  she  had  dismounted 
from  her  burro  and  entered  into  her  mansion,  the  Madam 
seated  herself  and,  to  our  amusement,  began  sharply  to 
order  about  her  numerous  daughters  and  granddaughters, 
in  a  most  magnificent  and  authoritative  manner.  Her  own 
small  children  were  hardly  to  be  distinguished  from  her 
grandchildren,  but  the  latest  baby  in  the  aggregation  she 
frequently  clasped  in  her  arms.  Otero  also  experienced  a 
change,  becoming  an  hospitable  caretaker,  quite  far  removed 
from  the  Indian  of  the  camino  to  whom  the  loss  of  teaspoons 
and  other  incidentals  of  camp  outfit  might  be  ascribed. 

Two  or  three  families  of  Yaqui  Indians  and  one  family 


no     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


of  ancient  Cochimis  resided  in  old  huts  near  the  mission. 
Otero,  however,  was  the  one  who  climbed  to  the  belfry  on 
Sunday  morning  and  sounded  the  bells  for  matins,  though 
none  but  the  elderly  people  seemed  to  gather  for  the  simple 
prayer  services.  Hanging  against  the  interior  walls  of  the 
iglesia  there  were  a  few  fairly  good  oil  paintings  of  saints, 
and  in  one  of  the  dark,  dungeon-like  rooms  off  the  altar  two 
skulls  grinned.  Perhaps,  if  these  yellowed  jaws  could  now 
voice  words,  vivid  scenes  would  be  recalled;  for  tradition 
and  ancient  chronicles  alike  give  to  the  Mission  of  San  Borja 
a  most  romantic  history,  dating  from  those  eighteenth  cen- 
tury days  when  the  Duquesa  Dona  Maria  de  Borja  (or 
Borgia),  first  decided  to  make  an  endowment  for  a  mission 
at  Adac,  the  ancient  Cochimi  name  for  the  San  Borja  site. 
Its  medicinal  hot  springs  had  made  this  spot  famous  among 
the  Indians.  The  establishment  was  founded  in  1762,  by 
the  Jesuit  explorer.  Padre  Winceslao  Link,  a  brilliantly 
educated  native  of  old  Bohemia.  The  first  buildings  were 
made  of  adobe  and  covered  a  large  space  of  ground.  Sub- 
sequently these  structures  were  in  part  superseded  by  the 
present  stone  iglesia,  or  church,  on  which,  according  to  tra- 
dition, the  Dominican  Frailes  labored  up  to  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  In  the  opening  years  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  the  Superior  of  the  Peninsula  Missions  sent  a  cir- 
cular letter  to  his  friars  asking  for  suggestions  and  reports. 
The  response  of  the  Fraile  of  San  Borja  still  exists.  In 
polished  periods  he  describes  his  loneliness,  cut  off  from  all 
intercourse  with  the  world  and  from  all  conversation,  save 
in  a  mongrel  tongue  with  treacherous  savages,  and  pathetic- 
ally inquires  whether  friars  may  not  be  assigned  in  couples 
at  such  remote  missions  as  his  own.  Poor  Fraile!  Ac- 
cording to  their  own  tradition,  the  Cochimis  ended  his  life 
by  gently  dropping  a  heavy  boulder  on  his  head. 

The  church  is  a  substantial  building,  seven  and  a  half  by 


WITH  THE  LAIRD  ALONG  EL  CAMINO  REAL  m 


thirty-nine  paces  within  and  probably  a  dozen  paces  in 
height;  the  walls  are  over  a  yard  in  thickness.  The  main 
doorway  is  guarded  by  massive  hewn  timber  doors,  and  just 
beyond  the  threshold  stands  a  font,  cut  out  of  a  single  block 
of  stone;  a  southwestern  doorway  is  walled  high  with  boul- 
ders. At  either  side  of  the  altar,  doorways  open  into  dark, 
forbidding,  circular  rooms,  intended  doubtless  for  confes- 
sionals. To  the  left  and  just  within  the  main  entrance,  a 
spiral  stairway,  with  thirty-five  worn  steps  of  cut  stone,  leads 
to  battlements,  overlooking  the  main  arroyo ;  similar  battle- 
ments guard  the  northwestern  corner  of  the  church.  Im- 
mediately before  arriving  at  this  balcony,  the  stairway 
branches  and  one  set  of  steps  enters  a  belfry  where  two  cop- 
per bells  are  swung.  The  bells  are  inscribed  thus:  "179 
*  senorsanioceph"  and  **7i94  *  San  VIS- 
GUOS  aganod  e."  Facing  slightly  east  of  south  it- 
self, the  church  is  joined  on  the  southeast  by  a  flat-roofed 
stone  building  containing  a  series  of  rooms  and  forming  an 
ell  within  which  lies  the  patio.  A  high  arched  gateway, 
such  as  one  sees  in  old  castles  on  the  continent,  opens  into 
this  court.  Indeed,  the  entire  mission  has  the  atmosphere 
of  a  grim,  massive  fortress. 

On  the  evening  of  our  arrival  at  San  Borja,  the  sound  of 
string  music  attracted  me  toward  the  ell,  in  one  of  the  large 
rooms  of  which  I  found  two  Yaqui  musicians  seated  beside 
an  ancient  square  table,  on  which  burned  a  dim  rush  candle. 
One  of  the  Yaquis  was  extremely  good  looking,  the  other 
jovial  and  burly.  They  played,  in  excellent  time,  on  guitar 
and  violin,  while  Martin,  Otero's  obliging  eighteen-year-old 
son,  waltzed  slowly  up  and  down  the  room.  Soon  a  small 
Yaqui  boy,  with  large,  serious  eyes  and  wrapped  close,  like 
his  fellows,  in  a  red  serapa,  entered  and  immediately  fell  to 
waltzing  in  solitary  state.  Ultimately,  the  fiddle  was  too 
much  for  me  and  I,  likewise,  took  to  footing  it  on  the  old 


112      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


stone  flags  where  once  the  Padres  had  knelt  in  prayer,  and 
where,  on  welcome  occasions,  they  had  enjoyed  good  wine 
with  passing  officials  and  dignitaries.  Speaking  of  wine,  in 
the  mission  garden  we  observed,  during  our  stay  at  San 
Borja  several  large  stone  vats,  which,  according  to  the  old 
Indians  had  been  used  in  early  times  by  the  Padres  for  the 
making  of  wine  and  the  pickling  of  olives.  In  the  same 
garden,  there  are  trellised  grape  vines,  olive  trees,  date 
palms,  orange  trees,  pomegranate  shrubs  and  alfalfa,  while 
evidences  are  near  by  of  a  former  extensive  irrigating  sys- 
tem. Once  upon  a  time  a  cloudburst  played  wild  havoc 
with  the  gardens  of  San  Borja. 

The  second  day  after  our  arrival  at  the  Mission  I  visited 
San  Ignacito,  a  rancho  situated  about  five  miles  to  the  west. 
The  proprietor  of  this  rancho  proved  to  be  one  of  Senor 
Dick's  numerous  mining  partners,  Senor  Fidel  Villavacensio. 
In  consequence  of  an  early  education  secured  in  the  United 
States,  Senor  Fidel  not  only  addressed  me  in  excellent  Eng- 
lish, but,  to  my  greater  surprise  placed  at  my  disposal  copies 
of  Harper^s  Weekly  and  the  Black  Cat.  He  entertained 
me  also  with  much  history  and  many  interesting  anecdotes 
concerning  the  days  of  the  missions,  and  particularly  of  the 
closing  days  immediately  preceding  the  Secularization  Act, 
for  he  had  known  many  an  Indian  who,  in  early  youth,  had 
been  a  neophyte.  Modeling  a  system  of  intense  irrigation 
with  well,  cistern  and  ditches  after  the  one  employed  on  the 
same  land  by  the  Padres  a  century  ago,  the  Senor  has  re- 
cently cleared  the  ground  at  San  Ignacito  and  is  putting  to 
practical  use  his  knowledge  of  the  history  and  tradition  in 
so  far,  at  least,  as  pertains  to  the  making  of  a  delightful 
garden  spot  in  the  barren  wilderness. 

Among  my  host's  books  I  was  delighted  to  find  a  Spanish 
edition  of  the  California  writings  of  Padre  Javier  Clavi- 
jero,  the  eighteenth  century  Jesuit  chronicler  of  whom  I've 


WITH  THE  LAIRD  ALONG  EL  CAMINO  REAL      1 13 


already  made  mention.  An  Italian  version  of  this  invalua- 
ble work  I  had  seen  years  before  in  San  Francisco. 

As  modern  naturalists  seem  to  consider  the  mountain 
sheep  one  of  their  nineteenth  century  discoveries,  I  will 
quote  an  illuminating  passage  from  chapter  sixteen  of  Clavi- 
jero:  *^El  taje  de  la  California  es  el  ibex  de  Plinio  y  el  bou- 
quetin  de  Bufon.  ^Sunt  ibices  pernicitatis  quamquam 
onerato  capite  vastis  cornibusJ  Plin.  Hist.  Nat.  Lib. 
VIII,  c.  53).  Which,  roughly  translated,  means,  *'The 
taje  of  California  is  similar  to  the  ibex  of  Pliny  and  the  bou- 
quetin  of  Buffon.  The  ibex  is  extremely  active,  though  his 
head  is  weighed  down  by  great  horns."  This  passage  is 
followed  by  a  statement  that  what  has  been  written  con- 
cerning the  ibex  and  bouquetin  has  been  observed  to  be  true 
of  the  California  taje. 

In  this  connection  I  will  here  add  a  quotation  from  Alex- 
ander Humboldt,  written  prior  to  1803.  ''The  Sierra  de 
la  Giganta,"  wrote  the  great  traveler  in  his  notes  on  Cali- 
fornia, ''is  inhabited  by  an  animal  resembling  the  mouflon 
{ovis  ammon)  of  Sardinia  .  .  .  The  Spaniards  call  them 
wild  sheep  {earner es  cimarones) .  They  leap,  like  the  ibex, 
with  their  heads  downward;  and  their  horns  are  curved  on 
themselves  In  a  spiral  form.  This  animal  differs  essen- 
tially from  the  wild  goat  ....  these  goats,  which  belong 
perhaps  to  the  antelope  race,  go  in  the  country  by  the  name 
of  berrendas." 

And  as  Padre  Jakob  Baegert  also  wrote  on  California 
mountain  sheep  in  the  eighteenth  century,  before  Shaw,  Cu- 
vier,  Desmarest,  Audubon  and  Doyle,  the  first  accredited 
writers  on  the  subject  were  born,  a  quotation  from  his 
"Nachrichten"  Is  here  proper:  "Where  the  chain  of  moun- 
tains that  runs  lengthwise  through  the  whole  peninsula 
reaches  a  considerabk  height,  there  are  found  animals  re- 
sembling our  rams  in  all  respects,  except  their  horns,  which 


114     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


are  thicker,  longer  and  much  more  curved."  The  old 
Padre  was  evidently  the  author  of  that  ridiculous  jumping 
yarn  for  he  concluded  his  account  thus,  *When  pursued, 
these  animals  will  drop  themselves  from  the  highest  preci- 
pices upon  their  horns  without  receiving  any  injury."  But 
what  may  not  be  expected  in  the  sheep  line  when  it  is  con- 
sidered that  that  champion  story-teller,  Marco  Polo,  with 
his  ovis  poll,  or  sheep  of  Central  Asia,  began  the  discovering 
of  mountain  sheep  way  back  in  the  thirteenth  century ! 

Two  modern  hunters  have  written  happily  and  with  par- 
ticularly good  sense  concerning  the  big-horn.  In  1881,  the 
Earl  of  Dunraven,  an  Irish  big  game  hunter,  thus  referred 
to  the  Rocky  Mountain  sheep :  *^Ovis  montana,  locally  and 
variously  called  the  mountain  sheep,  big-horn  or  taye,  is 
very  closely  allied  to,  if  he  is  not  identical  with,  Ovis  Argali, 
the  wild  sheep  of  Asia,  and  he  is  akin  to  the  European 
mouflon.  ...  To  find  the  big-horn  the  hunter  scales  giddy 
precipices  and  climbs  to  soaring  peaks  and  confronts  nature 
face  to  face  in  her  grandest,  her  most  terrific  moods."  And 
In  his  ^'Hunting  Trips  of  a  Ranchman,"  Colonel  Roosevelt 
says,  **Hunting  the  big-horn  Is  at  all  times  the  hardest  and 
most  difficult  kind  of  sport.  ...  Its  chase  constitutes  the 
noblest  form  of  sport  with  the  rifle.  .  .  .  No  other  form 
of  hunting  does  as  much  to  bring  out  the  good  qualities,  both 
moral  and  physical,  of  the  sportsman  who  follow  it." 

A  few  years  ago  the  mountain  sheep  of  the  Grapevine 
Mountains  between  Nevada  and  California  was  named 
after  that  industrious  naturalist,  Mr.  E.  W.  Nelson.  If 
the  Lower  California  sheep  Is  to  receive  any  distinctive 
name,  I  suggest  that  the  honor  fall  to  Francisco  Clavijero. 

But  I  have  wandered  far  from  San  Ignaclto.  The  pur- 
pose of  my  visit  there  had  been  to  bargain  for  a  burro,  one 
of  mine  having  become  too  foot-sore  for  further  travel. 
Unfortunately  for  me,  the  Seiior  had  no  burros  to  sell ;  how* 


WITH  THE  LAIRD  ALONG  EL  CAMINO  REAL  115 


ever,  though  we  might  not  traffic  in  live  stock,  he  kindly  gave 
me  some  dried  beef,  gladly  accepting  in  return  a  small  gift 
of  coffee,  beans,  flour  and  tobacco  from  us,  the  end  of  his 
own  supplies  being  in  sight.  The  worthy  Mexican  particu- 
larly appreciated  the  tobacco,  while  his  wife  stated  that  the 
coffee  would  bring  quiet  to  her  head,  which  had  been  rebel- 
lious for  six  days.  She  informed  me  that  without  coffee, 
neither  she  nor  her  women  could  do  efficient  work,  so  de- 
pendent had  they  become  upon  the  beverage. 

Though  my  visit  failed  of  its  purpose  I  enjoyed  It  great- 
ly, for  my  kindly  host  was  an  interesting  and  observant 
man;  moreover,  he  was  resourceful.  Toothache,  scourge 
of  the  wilderness,  he  cured  in  a  novel  way:  With  a  thread 
and  sheet  of  writing  paper  he  made  a  cornucopia,  the  open 
end  of  which  he  placed  flat  upon  a  dish;  he  then  set  fire  to 
the  upper  end  of  the  cornucopia  whereupon  the  burning 
paper  generated  a  drop  of  yellow  liquid.  This  liquid — it 
is  extremely  bitter — he  applied,  with  a  toothpick  and  cot- 
ton, to  the  cavity  and  the  toothache  perished  amid  the  howls 
of  the  possessor  of  the  tooth. 

TeguaSy  or  native  shoes,  if  made  by  Senor  Fidel,  are 
highly  prized  in  the  Waist  of  the  Peninsula.  To  their 
value  I  can  testify,  for  he  kindly  prepared  a  pair  for  me 
*Vhile  I  waited."  His  method  was  simplicity  itself:  Using 
a  draw  knife,  he  first  smoothed  off  a  piece  of  heavy  tanned 
beef  hide  and  from  this  he  cut  out  two  pieces  of  leather, 
measured  to  my  feet;  then  he  cut  out  two  more  pieces  of 
similar  design  and,  by  the  aid  of  small  cobblers'  tacks,  soon 
had  double  thickness  soles  prepared.  The  uppers  he  made 
of  a  single  thickness  and  with  lighter  weight  leather.  Each 
upper  consisted  of  two  parts;  the  front  piece,  resembling.  In 
appearance,  a  plasterer's  trowel,  covered  the  toe  and  instep 
and  served,  also,  the  purpose  of  a  tongue;  the  other  piece 
lapped  over  the  tongue  with  its  ends  and  extended  around 


Ii6     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


the  heel  of  the  foot:  These  uppers  were  attached  to  the 
soles  with  extremely  small  cobblers'  tacks  driven,  from  the 
outer  side,  through  the  lower  edge  of  the  uppers.  Holes 
having  been  made  through  the  upper  portions  of  the  ex- 
tremities of  each  of  the  overlapping  uppers,  shoe  strings, 
in  the  shape  of  buckskin  thongs,  were  passed  through  these 
holes  to  bind  the  teguas  to  the  feet.  Heels  he  omitted. 
For  comfort  and  noiseless  travel  teguas  are  unequalled.  I 
used  mine  in  hunting  until  they  were  worn  out  and  then 
purchased  another  pair  at  Loreto.  Although  the  Senor 
could  not  inform  me  concerning  the  invention  of  these  na- 
tive shoes,  inasmuch  as  my  Scotch  friend  wore  similar  foot- 
gear made  by  Kaffirs  for  use  on  the  African  veldt,  I  hazard 
a  guess  that  the  widely-traveled  Jesuits  originated  the  Cali- 
fornia tegua. 

While  he  was  working  over  the  leather  Senor  Villava- 
censio  asked  me  whether  I  was  collecting  botanical  or  zoo- 
logical specimens.  Upon  my  negative  reply  he  related  to 
me  this  yarn :  A  few  years  ago,  when  Senor  Dick  was  yet  in 
charge  of  the  San  Juan  Mine  above  Los  Flores,  the  quar- 
terly supply  boat  brought  to  Los  Angeles  Playa  a  scientist 
from  the  United  States.  Senor  Dick  received  the  stranger 
hospitably  and  supplied  him  with  a  native  mozo  under 
whose  guidance  the  scientist  easily  secured  many  new  and 
unclassified  specimens.  As  the  time  for  his  departure  drew 
near,  the  scientist  became  uneasy.  At  last  he  stated  his 
case  to  Senor  Dick.  He  was  possessed  of  a  camera  and 
he  desired  a  picture  taken  which  would  show  the  dangers 
through  which  he  had  passed.  '^Good,"  said  Senor  Dick, 
*Ve'll  arrange  that.''  Accordingly,  Senor  Dick,  Senor 
Fidel,  the  American  and  the  mozo  repaired  to  a  convenient 
and  not  too  dangerous  precipice.  Near  the  brink  they  ar- 
ranged a  mining  crane  and  a  heavy  rope,  the  farther  end 
of  which  was  tied  about  the  waist  of  the  American.  With 


WITH  THE  LAIRD  ALONG  EL  CAMINO  REAL      1 1? 


the  Seiiors  and  the  mozo  managing  the  crane,  the  ambitious 
scientist,  a  handful  of  his  new  specimens  in  his  hands,  was 
swung  over.  After  paying  out  forty  feet  of  rope,  Senor 
Dick  withdrew  to  a  good  vantage  point  and  snapped  the 
camera.  **After  the  scientist's  return  to  the  States,"  con- 
cluded Senor  Fidel,  ^^the  picture  of  the  feat  was  developed 
and  published  in  the  papers  with  thrilling  headlines  which 
secured  for  him  an  honorable  position.  He  had  never  writ- 
ten us  his  thanks,  though." 

On  my  return  from  San  Ignacito,  I  found  that  my  com- 
panion had  been  successful  in  engaging  two  burros  and  their 
master,  one  of  the  musical  Yaquis,  to  journey  any  reasona- 
ble distance  with  us.  Accordingly,  as  the  Laird  was  still 
under  the  weather,  we  decided  to  swing  down  to  the  Gulf 
and  visit  Los  Flores,  where  there  was  said  to  be  a  mining 
proprietor  who  had  at  one  time  practiced  medicine.  This 
matter  agreed  upon,  I  congratulated  my  friend  upon  his 
burro  bargaining  abilities  and  accepted  his  Invitation  to 
visit  the  further  corner  of  the  mission  gardens  and  inspect 
some  hot  springs  in  which  he  planned  to  bathe  his  injured 
limbs. 

The  springs  proved  to  be  decidedly  warm,  well  shaded 
by  Cottonwood  trees  and  partially  lined  with  flat  stones.  To 
the  Laird's  discomfiture,  however,  two  of  the  Madam's 
daughters  and  one  of  her  baby  granddaughters  were  rest- 
ing calmly  by  the  larger  spring,  evidently  preparing  for  the 
baby's  bath.  Even  his  ostentatious  throwing  aside  of  his 
coat  and  unlacing  of  his  boots  failed  to  induce  them  to 
depart. 

He  paused  with  blushes  on  his  cheeks  and  soft  swear 
words  on  his  lips,  and  courteously  made  signs  to  the 
Indian  maidens  to  take  their  departure.  The  latter  giggled 
and  made  response  to  the  effect  that  they  were  not  in  the 
way  and  that  their  people  had  used  the  aguas  calientes  since 


Ii8      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


the  beginning  of  the  world.  This  was  too  much  for  my 
risibility,  but  though  I  rallied  him  unmercifully  my  com- 
panion, having  had  experience  in  India  with  natives,  posi- 
tively declined  to  take  the  needed  bath  while  the  Indians 
were  In  the  neighborhood,  saying  that  the  question  of  caste 
must  be  respected.  Accordingly,  I  herded  the  pair  away  to 
a  lesser  spring  and  then  devoted  myself  to  the  diversion  of 
a  party  of  half  a  dozen  small  Indians  who  were  en  route  for 
their  hot  bath.  These  little  people  soon  became  accustomed 
to  me  and  played  with  all  the  glee  of  Anglo-Saxon  children,^ 
laughing  gaily,  then  creeping  quietly  towards  me  with  small 
hands  outstretched,  only  to  turn  and  rush  away  In  feigned 
alarm.  Whenever  I  made  pretense  of  seizing  them  their 
delight  became  ecstatic.  Of  my  camera,  however,  they  had 
so  real  a  fear  that  I  had  not  the  heart  to  turn  It  upon  them. 
Though  they  were  all  pretty,  bright-eyed  toddlers,  their 
one-piece  garments  were  ragged  and  wofuUy  unwashed. 

Refreshed  by  his  bath,  the  Laird  finally  rejoined  me. 
Returning  to  the  mission,  we  climbed  the  battlements  whence 
we  could  view  the  surrounding  rugged  country  at  our  ease. 
Here  he  explained  to  me  the  proper  military  manner  of  de- 
fending the  mission  against  Indians,  while  I  threw  stones 
at  a  large  Iguana  which,  hearing  our  voices,  had  thrust  his 
beetling  head  Inquisitively  from  an  aperture  among  the 
stones  of  the  arched  roof.  A  century  ago  the  Cochimis  be- 
sieged San  Borja  and  endeavored  to  scale  Its  walls.  Now 
Otero,  a  Cochlmi,  Is  Its  sole  guardian.  His  Intense  faithful- 
ness Is  measured  by  the  fact  that,  when  an  earnest  Padre 
attempted  to  remove  one  of  the  mission  bells  to  an  iglesia 
where  services  were  more  frequent,  Otero  trailed  down  the 
good  man,  laid  a  charge  against  him  before  a  juez  (justice)^ 
and  secured  the  return  of  the  bell. 

After  descending  from  our  station,  the  Laird  and  I  visited 
the  Madam  and  presented  her  with  a  worn  pair  of  riding- 


WITH  THE  LAIRD  ALONG  EL  CAMINO  REAL      1 19 


bags  for  the  use  of  her  growing  male  progeny;  in  token  of 
her  appreciation  she  gave  us  a  large  dish  of  wild  honey. 
Meantime,  Otero  appeared  on  the  scene  bearing  two  fiber 
soladeros,  or  saddle  sweat  blankets,  which  I  had  agreed  to 
buy  and  which  he  had  made  from  the  palma  del  monte,  a 
species  of  palm  growing  extensively  in  the  region  of  San 
Borja.  These  fiber  soladeros  keep  an  animal's  back  cool 
and  save  it  from  sores.  The  knack  of  their  preparation  is 
doubtless  a  survival  of  the  art  of  weaving  which  the  Jesuits 
introduced  among  the  Peninsula  Mission  Indians  In  the 
eighteenth  century.  Good  mattresses  are  made  in  the  same 
way,  but  the  mattress  market  is  rather  slack  about  San 
Borja. 

While  Otero  was  in  the  midst  of  a  minute  description  of 
the  process  of  making  fiber  soladeros,  the  Laird  veered 
away  toward  camp  where  I  joined  him  half  an  hour  later. 
As  I  appeared  choking  with  laughter  he  gravely  Inquired 
concerning  the  cause  of  my  mirth. 

"Great  things,  those  soladeros/*  I  began,  *'and,  fortu- 
nately, the  Kitten  understands  their  preparation." 

*T  grant  the  usefulness,"  he  replied,  seriously,  **but  who's 
the  'Kitten,'  and  why  'fortunately' ?" 

''The  'Kitten'  Is  the  muchacha  for  whom  our  friends  de- 
sire a  life's  partner.  As  I  have  just  explained  that  the  hot 
baths  have  restored  you  to  shooting  condition,  the  Senor 
has  given  his  approval  and  the  Madam  is  delighted  over 
the  near  prospect  of  a  blonde  son-in-law." 

"Get  out!    You're  stringing  me." 

"Stay  here  twenty-four  hours  and  see,"  I  replied,  chal- 
lenglngly. 

"Lord,  man,  I've  never  seen  the  woman — don't  desire  to, 
either." 

"That  doesn't  matter.  She's  heard  about  you.  When 
I  told  her  that  you  had  a  big  rancho  on  a  distant  Island  witK 


I20     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


lard,  coffee,  sugar,  and  candies  by  the  barrel,  she  clapped 
her  hands  in  wild  delight.  She's  almost  thirteen  which,  as 
I  gather,  is  a  proper  nuptial  age  among  the  Cochimis. 
Laird,  the  greatest  thing  you  ever  did  was  to  be  born  blonde 
— and  the  second  greatest  was  when  you  gave  Madam  some 
of  your  tobacco." 

*'If  you're  trying  to  string  me,  keep  on,"  he  growled, 
hotly.  I  shrugged  my  shoulders  and  made  ready  to  prepare 
supper.  My  silence  disturbed  him.  ^'Suppose  we  break 
camp,"  he  observed,  presently.  '*I've  always  made  it  a 
point  to  keep  my  distance  with  savages." 

**Good,"  I  cried,  applaudingly,  while  the  Laird  looked 
fiercely  toward  the  mission  as  though  expecting  a  savage 
wedding  party  to  issue  from  the  ancient  arched  doorway. 
Presently  I  continued:  ^^All  I  have  to  add  is  that  if  you 
should  decide  to  take  this  Cochimi  princess,  Pocahontas  like, 
to  be  your  Lady,  do  not  let  it  disturb  our  friendship.  I 
won't  be  jealous.    Honest,  I  wont.    I've  seen  her!" 

That  night  was  intensely  cold,  so  cold  that  I  slept  fitfully 
and  was  awakened  by  the  tinkling  of  Coronado's  bell. 
Looking  over  the  wall  of  our  adobe,  I  saw  the  last  of  our 
animals  vaulting  the  bars  which  kept  them  within  a  walled 
field  of  alfalfa — which  they  were  leaving  with  the  plain  in- 
tent of  dieting  on  shrubs  and  cacti.  A  comical  sight  they 
made,  stalking  seriously  along,  single  file,  in  the  bright 
moonlight. 

Our  departure  the  following  morning  was  too  exciting  to 
be  interesting.  To  begin  with,  rest  and  green  feed  had 
made  broncos  of  our  burros  so  that  even  our  powerful 
Yaqui  servitor,  assisted  by  my  active  little  mozo,  was  unable 
to  persuade  the  festive  Cabrlllo,  my  big  white  burro,  to  be 
saddled  until  both  forefeet  were  tied  and  a  blind  placed  over 
his  eyes.  Meantime  one  of  my  other  burros  and  a  Yaqui 
burro  inopportunely  took  to  the  hills.    On  top  of  this  the 


WITH  THE  LAIRD  ALONG  EL  CAMINO  REAL  121 


Indian  muchachas  kept  pestering  me  for  ^WopaJ'  We  had 
already  made  the  family  many  presents  and  our  supply  of 
rope  was  short.  In  the  confusion,  I  lost  my  temper  and 
told  the  girls  most  sharply  that  I  had  not  an  inch  of  rope  to 
spare.  Undiscouraged,  however,  they  hung  about  the  adobe 
clamoring  for  ^^ropa,  tin  peso  ropUy^  to  which  they  received 
no  response,  except  a  short  reply  from  me  to  the  effect  that 
all  our  rope  was  required  for  our  packs  and  that  not  five 
pesos  would  secure  them  a  piece  of  it.  Only  too  glad  to 
escape  from  the  pertinacious  muchachas  and  their  cries  of 
^Wopay  SehoVy  ropa,^^  I  slipped  into  my  saddle  and  rode  over 
to  the  mission  gateway  where  I  was  bidding  the  Madam  a 
touching  farewell,  when  I  heard  an  exclamation  from  one  of 
the  younger  members  of  her  family.  Looking  backward,  I 
saw  the  form  of  my  friend  stretched  on  the  ground.  I 
learned  later  that  just  as  he  was  mounting  his  burro,  one  of 
the  Yaqui's  broncos^  the  animal  had  leaped  forward  and 
fallen  with  him,  pinning  his  already  injured  knee  beneath 
its  shoulders  and  against  a  sharp  fragment  of  broken  stone. 
That  the  leg  was  not  fractured  is  a  marvel.  After  assist- 
ing the  Laird  to  his  feet,  I  found  him  grittily  persistent  in 
remounting  his  vicious  beast.  He  was  gravely  anxious  to 
quit  San  Borja. 


CHAPTER  X 


THE   LOST  GULFO  CAMINO  AND  THE  CANNIBAL  ISLE  OF 

TIBURON 

I  /^ROM  San  Borja,  the  Laird  and  I  journeyed  north- 


westerly and  then  northeasterly,  finding  faint  signs 


of  an  ancient  and  very  broad  highway,  marked  by 
lines  of  stones  on  either  side,  lines  which  must  have  been 
surveyed  with  every  care.  No  well  defined  trail  remained, 
however.  We  were  now  in  the  Waist,  proper,  of  the  Pe- 
ninsula, the  distance  from  Gulf  to  Ocean  being  but  thirty- 
seven  miles.  Indeed,  as  we  crossed  the  divide  of  the  main 
Cordillera,  I  was  able  to  see  the  Pacific  Ocean  to  the  west; 
the  Gulf  of  California  being  only  a  few  miles  to  the  east  I 
felt  willing  to  concur  in  the  belief  that,  in  an  earlier  age, 
the  ocean  swept  across  this  section  of  the  Peninsula,  form- 
ing an  island  of  the  southern  portion. 

Passing  through  the  divide  we  found  a  considerable  pond 
lying  in  a  sheltered  valley,  joyous  with  the  gay  chorus  of 
quail  and  song  birds  and  fragrant  with  the  perfume  of 
myriad  wild  flowers.  At  this  stage  of  our  journey,  while 
engaged  in  my  frequent  occupation  of  delving  In  my  Spanish 
dictionary,  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  word  ^^ropaf'  the  English 
equivalent  following  gave  me  a  feeling  of  deepest  mortifi- 
cation and  chagrin.  I  had  assumed  that  ropa  meant 
**rope":  it  means  "clothes,  clothing,  laundry!"  On  my  ar- 
rival at  San  Borja  I  had  arranged  with  the  Madame  for  the 
laundering  of  a  bundle  of  our  clothes.  Her  girls  had  done 
the  work  and  in  my  absence  at  San  Ignacito,  left  the  bundle 


123 


124     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


in  our  tent  where  it  had  lain  unobserved  and  had  finally  been 
thrust  with  my  blankets  into  a  dunnage  bag.  Thus  the 
Laird  and  I,  representatives  of  two  highly  civilized  nations, 
had  coolly  ridden  away  without  paying  the  poor,  anxious 
muchachas  their  well-earned  peso  laundry  bill.  As  it  was 
too  late  for  us  to  return  and  correct  our  mistake,  I  pity  the 
next  foreigner  w^ho  endeavors  to  have  washing  done  by  the 
Indian  girls  of  San  Borja! 

The  second  day  out,  my  companion's  burro  renewed  his 
bronco  tricks,  developing  a  strange  faculty  for  falling  un* 
expectedly  down.  The  Laird's  vocabulary  grew  extraordi- 
narily, but  it  was  unable  to  keep  pace  with  that  burro's  new 
wrinkles  of  deviltry.  Our  people,  also,  were  provoking. 
In  one  instance  we  had  delayed,  that  I  might  extract  several 
thorns  which  had  jammed  their  way  through  my  shoes. 
They  kept  blithely  on ;  in  fact,  they  were  full  two  miles  away 
when  we  eventually  caught  sight  of  them.  Even  to  frequent 
discharges  of  our  rifles  they  gave  no  heed  until  we  had  so 
far  advanced  that  the  Laird  was  able  to  drop  a  rifle  ball 
from  his  long-barreled  .30-.40  Winchester,  in  their  imme- 
diate neighborhood.  When  one  is  in  a  country  minus  a 
trail  and  pays  a  man  to  act  as  guide,  it  is  not  gratifying  to 
have  that  man  hasten  out  of  sight  and  leave  one  to  his  own 
tracking  resources.  Such  experiences  as  this  finally  led  me 
to  trust  to  my  own  mountain  sense  and  to  enjoin  my  mozos 
to  confine  their  attentions  to  the  animals,  cooking  and  pack- 
ing and  leave  to  me  the  course  of  travel. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day,  I  witnessed  with  keen 
relish  and  delight  a  gusty  passage  between  my  irate  com- 
panion and  our  stupid,  burly  Yaqui  '*guide."  The  latter  had 
been  particularly  doltish  and  the  former,  having  exhausted 
all  his  sign  language  and  native  swear  words  without  effect, 
stood  before  the  wooden  faced  Indian,  his  little  soft  hat 
awry  on  the  back  of  his  curly  blond  head,  his  usually  mild 


THE  LOST  GULFO  CAMINO 


125 


face  flushed  with  anger,  his  lips  white,  his  elbows  close  to 
his  body,  his  clenched  hands  before  him,  beating  the  air. 
The  words  that  I  caught  were  these:  '*Oh,  curse  you!  Oh, 
you  cursed  Yaqui !  I  have  damned  you  in  four  tongues  and 
your  face  is  still  impassive.  Oh,  if  I  only  knew  your  lan- 
guage so  that  I  could  swear  with  a  feeling  that  what  I  said 
was  being  appreciated!  Oh,  oh!  Can't  you  even  see  that 
I  am  cursing  you?"  So  earnest  a  denunciation,  delivered  in 
entire  ignorance  of  my  proximity,  could  not  be  spoiled,  so  I 
fell  back  before  exploding  with  laughter. 

That  evening,  with  the  glint  of  a  smile  in  his  eyes,  my 
Scotchman  suddenly  remarked,  **Do  you  know  what  the 
Yaq.'s  name  is?'' 

*^Julio,  I  believe,"  I  replied. 

portion  of  it.  His  full  name  is  Julius  Caesar.  Your 
boy's  name  is  Jesiis,  and  it  is  beyond  reason  for  any  two 
men  to  expect  smooth  traveling  when  trying  to  follow,  at 
the  same  time,  both  Great  Caesar  and  Je — " 

*'Here,  let  up,"  I  interrupted,  laughingly,  **must  I  tell  you 
that,  to  save  my  conscience  from  a  feeling  of  sacrilege,  for 
days — every  time  I've  written  it  in  my  journal,  in  fact — 
I've  followed  that  boy's  name,  religiously,  with  brackets,  en- 
closing the  decent  Spanish  pronunciation,  and  now  you,  you 
dissenting.  Covenanting,  Scotch  Presbyterian,  impious,  ir- 
reverent— " 

*^0h,  man,  man,  I'm  more  than  weary;  let's  sleep,"  and 
sleep  we  accordingly  did. 

The  following  day  we  descended  along  the  course  of  a 
rattlesnake-infested  arroyo  that  brought  us  out  upon  the 
Gulf  of  California.  Half  a  league  from  shore  there  lay  a 
rocky  island,  stretching  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see  to  the 
north  and  making  a  beautiful,  land-locked  harbor  with  a 
beach  unsurpassed  at  any  of  the  American  watering  places. 
This  was  the  Bay  of  Los  Angeles  of  the  Gulf,  a  broad  sweep 


126     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


of  twenty-five  miles,  for  many  years  the  retreat  of  the  cheer- 
ful buccaneers,  in  more  recent  times  the  haven  of  contrahan- 
distas  and  beachcombers.  Here  our  eyes  were  gladdened 
by  the  sight  of  a  group  of  palms  and  a  small  clump  of  sugar- 
cane, clustered  on  the  rising  ground  just  above  several 
shacks,  old  stone  corrals  and  the  shattered  ribs  of  ships' 
boats.  This  oasis  proved  to  be  the  Aguaje  San  Juan 
(Spring  of  St.  John),  of  which  I  had  read  in  chronicles 
written  a  century  and  a  half  ago.  Shadowing  the  palms,  a 
white  granite  mountain  lifted  its  craggy  shoulders  a  sheer 
mile  towards  the  clear  sky,  while  from  the  Aguaje  a  spark- 
ling stream  bubbled  forth  and  rushed  into  pools.  For  the 
convenience  of  stray  crafts,  a  rusty  iron  pipe  carried  a  steady 
flow  from  one  of  the  pools  to  the  shore,  a  furlong  distant. 
In  1746  the  Jesuit  explorer,  Padre  Hernando  Consag, 
visited  this  coast  and  named  the  harbor  the  Bay  of  the 
Angels,  the  island.  Guardian  Angel  {Angel  de  la  Guardia), 
and  the  strait  between  shore  and  island.  Whale  Channel 
(Canal  de  Ballenas).  This  channel  has  always  been  noted 
for  its  whales,  called  California  Grays.  Upon  the  passing 
of  the  buccaneers,  the  New  Bedford  whalers  hurried  hither 
and  waged  war  upon  the  *'Grays."  The  New  Englanders 
got  the  worst  of  it,  however,  and  now  these  warrior  whales 
play  and  splash  about  and  bring  forth  their  young,  undis- 
turbed by  harpoon  or  rifle. 

Making  camp  in  a  corral,  we  found,  in  a  cave  near  by,  a 
choice  assortment  of  skulls  and  other  '^human  various." 
In  early  times  the  Indians  from  San  Borja  frequented  the 
Aguaje  San  Juan,  catching  turtles,  fish  and  oysters  in  the 
Bay,  while  the  Yaqui  and  Seri  Indians  crossed  the  Gulf  from 
the  Sonora  coast  for  like  purpose,  not  infrequently  meeting 
with  sanguinary  results.  We,  however,  found  but  one 
visitor,  a  pock-marked  ancient,  seemingly  a  beachcomber, 
though  he  may  have  been  a  retired  pirate. 


THE  LOST  GULFO  CAMINO 


127 


The  night  we  passed  near  the  Aguaje  was  perfect,  a  moon, 
nearly  full,  bringing  out  the  massive,  ghostly  white  sierras, 
the  glistening  sand  on  the  wide  beach  and  the  glassy  water 
of  the  crescent  bay.  Awakening  at  midnight,  I  arose  and, 
leaning  against  the  ancient  wall  of  our  silent  camp,  revelled 
in  the  brilliant  beauty  of  my  surroundings,  thinking  of  the 
sixteenth  century  Spanish  voyagers  that  first  had  ventured 
into  this  Adriatic  of  the  West,  this  Sea  of  Cortez,  and  of 
the  freebooters,  contrahandistas  and  naval  explorers  of  later 
days,  until  their  shadows  seemed  to  rise  up  against  the  clear 
outline  of  silent  Angel  de  la  Guardia.  I  slept  again,  most 
peacefully  now,  in  the  balmy  air,  but  with  the  first  soft  light 
of  early  morning  I  slipped  down  to  the  sandy  beach  and, 
finding  among  the  timbers  of  a  broken  ship's  boat,  two  great 
turtle  shells,  I  dragged  them  nearer  the  rippling  water. 
Upon  one  I  piled  my  clothes,  resting  the  while  in  placid 
comfort  upon  the  other.  After  a  keenly  invigorating 
plunge — though  the  water  was  a  trifle  cold  and  sharks  had 
to  be  considered — I  raced  along  the  warm  sands,  converted 
to  primitive  life  and  quite  ready  to  lapse  into  a  primeval 
existence. 

On  leaving  the  Aguaje,  we  followed  the  line  of  the  beach, 
passing  the  deserted  reduction  works  of  the  Santa  Marta 
Mine,  and  winding  our  way  along  a  narrow  path  in  the 
cliff  high  above  the  breaking  waves.  Here  one  of  the 
burros  became  alarmed  by  a  rolling  stone  and,  turning  half 
about  in  the  trail,  frightened  the  others,  placing  my  whole 
outfit  in  imminent  danger  of  falling  over  the  cliff  and  into 
the  surf  far  beneath.  The  stolid  Julius,  who  was  nearest 
to  the  tangle,  was  too  lazy  to  retrace  his  steps  and  extricate 
the  animals,  nor  did  he  come  to  time  until  subjected  to  the 
persuasiveness  inherent  in  the  staring  muzzle  of  a  carbine. 
Farther  along  we  descended  to  the  shore  once  more,  and 
shortly  passed  a  forlorn  wayside  grave  with  its  grim  pile  of 


128      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

Stones  and  pathetic  little  driftwood  cross.  Another  mile 
brought  us  to  a  warehouse,  a  boat  landing  and  a  deserted 
frame  house.  In  the  latter  a  rusted  telephone  box  catching 
my  eye,  I  at  once  called  for  '^Central."  To  my  extreme 
surprise,  a  woman's  soft  voice  answered,  promptly,  in  Eng- 
lish, and  much  abashed,  I  was  soon  announcing  my  name 
and  my  intention  of  paying  my  respects  to  the  residents  of 
Los  Flores  (The  Flowers),  the  other  end  of  the  line. 

Accordingly,  we  now  turned  from  the  coast.  After  jour- 
neying two  leagues  along  a  sandy  road,  leading  in  a  south- 
erly direction,  we  came  upon  a  charming  region  of  densely 
growing  wild  flowers  where  the  presence  of  shadowy  build- 
ings, rampant  burros  and  barking  dogs  advised  us  of  a  set- 
tlement. This  according  to  Julius,  was  Los  Flores.  Night 
having  fallen  we  went  into  camp  without  investigation.  The 
following  morning  we  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  place,  an  American  by  the  name  of  Dr. 
Plank.  Not  only  was  he  a  fellow  countryman  but  also  a 
Good  Samaritan,  for  he  made  room  for  us  at  his  hospitable 
table,  introduced  his  wife  and  son  and  placed  his  home  and 
his  books  at  our  disposal.  Here  we  stayed  for  three  days, 
during  which  we  thoroughly  enjoyed  ourselves.  A  large 
mining  plant  is  situated  at  Los  Flores  in  connection  with 
which  there  is  a  seven-mile  railroad  with  a  baby  engine. 
When  I  boarded  this  engine,  young  Plank  soberly  informed 
me  that  one  of  my  burros  was  weeping  with  surprise  and 
jealousy  at  the  sight. 

Throughout  the  altogether  pleasant  hours  spent  at  Los 
Flores,  I  sought  eagerly  for  additional  news  in  regard  to 
the  Seri  Indians  concerning  whom  I  had  read  already  in  old 
chronicles  and  of  whom  Julio  had  frequently  spoken  with 
latent  bitterness.  These  people  inhabit  Tiburon,  or  Shark 
Island,  a  barren,  rocky  stretch  of  land  some  ten  leagues  In 
length  by  four  or  five  in  breadth,  lying  off  the  Sonora  coast, 


THE  LOST  GULFO  CAMINO 


129 


opposite  the  Aguaje  San  Juan.  Though  Its  greatest  heights 
attain  an  elevation  of  5,000  feet,  there  are  only  three  con- 
siderable water-holes  on  the  entire  Island.  From  the  sum- 
mer of  1540  when  Hernando  de  Alarcon,  one  of  Cortez's 
admirals,  finding  the  surrounding  sea  swarming  with  vora- 
cious sharks,  gave  the  land  Its  name,  TIburon  Island  has 
been  a  place  of  111  repute  amongst  men.  A  race  of  splendid 
physique  and  marvelous  fleetness,  Its  Inhabitants,  known  as 
the  Serl,  were  reported  by  Don  Rodrlgo  Maldonado,  an 
officer  of  Coronado,  as  being  *'so  large  and  tall  that  the  best 
man  In  the  (Spanish)  army  reached  only  to  their  chests." 
Indeed,  there  is  excellent  reason  for  believing  that  out  of 
the  Spanish  tales  of  the  Serl  were  created,  through  an  au- 
thor's Imaginative  brain,  the  Brobdingnaglans  of  Dean 
Swift.  At  the  same  time  it  is  no  wild  phantasy  to  surmise 
that  TIburon  is  really  the  island  which  Cortez  had  In  view 
when  he  sent  his  admirals  in  search  of  California,  ''the  land 
of  Amazons" ;  certainly  the  Serl  women  exercise  an  unusual 
control  of  affairs  on  TIburon,  and  all  kinship  Is  reckoned  In 
the  female  line. 

Prior  to  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  island  were  reputed  to  be  cannibals,  a  stigma 
which  still  attaches  to  them;  by  the  opening  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  their  animosity  toward  strangers  had  become 
proverbial.  Neighboring  Indian  tribes,  Spaniards,  Mexi- 
cans, Americans,  Indeed,  all  visiting  aliens  have  found  the 
Serl  Inexplicably  treacherous  and  hostile.  Non-agricultural 
barbarians,  scantily  garbed  In  pelican  skins,  partial  to  meat 
uncooked  and  to  the  unspeakably  disgusting  ''second  crop" 
of  the  cacti,  these  isolated  aborigines  are  possessed  of  a 
pride  of  blood  so  fierce  and  intense  that  to  intermingle  their 
own  with  that  of  an  alien  Is  an  Indefensible  crime. 

The  Serl  are  essentially  warriors.  During  the  three  cen- 
turies last  past  over  fifty  recorded  attempts  have  been  made 


130     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


to  subjugate  them.  Cunning,  possessed  of  unequalled  en- 
durance and  a  demoniac  lust  for  blood,  they  have  repulsed 
or  eluded  all  comers.  If  as  many  as  five  hundred  members 
of  the  tribe  yet  survive,  then  a  moderate  estimate  of  their 
cost  merely  to  Mexican  war  parties,  would  be  two  hundred 
dollars  per  head.  While  they  carry  long  bows,  they  seem 
more  partial  to  hupfs,  or  handy  boulders,  and  to  their  teeth 
and  hands.  That  they  use  poisoned  arrows  is  a  charge 
that  has  been  made  against  their  warriors  these  two  cen- 
turies past.  It  is  said  that  they  obtain  the  deadly  venom 
by  pressing  their  arrow  points  against  partially  hollowed 
putrified  livers  within  which  a  repulsive  mass  of  centipedes, 
tarantulas  and  rattlesnakes  have  been  stored,  warring  until 
death. 

Lithe,  deep-chested,  of  rather  comely  figures  and  well  pro- 
portioned bodies,  the  strength  of  the  Seri  is  as  extraordinary 
as  their  lust  for  slaughter.  Separated  from  the  Sonora 
mainland  by  the  treacherous  waters  of  a  narrow  strait, 
well  termed  Boca  Infierno  (Mouth  of  Hell)  and  Infiernillo 
(Little  Hell)  they  dextrously  propel  their  frail  cane  balsas 
across  the  swirling  waves,  carrying  with  them  plunder  from 
the  inland  natives.  Indeed,  at  low  tide  it  is  said  they  breast 
these  waters  without  artificial  support,  carrying  on  their 
stalwart  shoulders  great  reeking  quarters  of  stolen  beef. 
Working  in  concert,  moreover,  four  Seri  will  run  down  a 
deer  or  mountain  sheep,  beating  out  its  brains  with  hupfs. 
Many  of  the  men  exceed  six  feet  In  height. 

Meager  in  its  vocabulary,  the  language  of  these  people 
has  been  variously  ascribed  to  Arabian,  Welsh  and  Pata- 
gonian  original.  In  their  worship,  the  turtle  and  the  peli- 
can are  chief  tutelaries. 

So  many  of  the  visitors  to  Tiburon  Island,  however,  have 
disappeared,  leaving  no  sign,  that  most  knowledge  of  its 
people  and  their  customs  is  traditional  and  veiled  in  uncer- 


THE  LOST  GULFO  CAMINO 


tainty.  Df  recent  travelers  who  have  never  returned  from 
the  Sen,  I  will  mention  two  San  Francisco  correspondents, 
murdered  there  in  1894,  a  party  of  prospectors  who  effected 
a  landing  in  1896,  two  traders  who  were  made  away  with 
in  1898  and,  finally,  the  Grindell  party  of  last  year.  Well, 
indeed,  did  a  scientist  of  the  Smithsonian  Institute  charac- 
terize the  natives  of  Tiburon  as  "the  most  primitive,  the 
most  bloodthirsty  and  treacherous  of  the  Indians  of  North 
America.''  So  much  for  the  'cross-the-Gulf  neighbors  of 
Los  Flores.  The  knowledge  that  leagues  of  water  inter- 
vened was  rather  comforting. 

On  the  third  day  of  our  visit  at  Los  Flores,  our  kindly 
American  host  professionally  advised  my  Scotch  friend 
against  traveling  farther  overland  in  his  debilitated  condi- 
tion and  invited  him  to  remain  in  his  home,  until  such  time 
in  the  near  future  as  a  steamer  from  Guaymas  might  appear. 
He  even  seriously  remonstrated  with  me  concerning  my 
venturing  southward  by  the  lost  Gulfo  Camino,  stating  that 
it  was  reputed  to  lead  through  a  dangerous  and  untraveled 
country.  I  parted  regretfully  with  the  Laird.  Taking 
the  miner's  advice  in  so  far  as  it  concerned  the  carrying  of 
Mexican  currency  in  place  of  coin,  and  providing  myself 
with  a  new  Indian  guide,  Lario,  by  name,  and  two  new 
rented  burros,  I  left  Los  Flores  late  the  afternoon  of  the 
iith  of  March  and  rode  southward  into  the  wilds. 

A  rainstorm  soon  burst  upon  us  and  continued  unceasingly, 
but  we  covered  ten  miles  before  darkness  and  the  pelting 
storm  compelled  us  to  halt.  Then,  having  been  forewarned 
by  Dr.  Plank,  I  had  my  mozos  tie  the  burros  for  the 
night  so  that  they  might  not  stray  away  into  regions  abound- 
ing in  the  poison  weed,  la  yerha,  and  the  poisonous  little 
creature  el  animal,  both  of  which  are  deadly  to  grazing 
beasts.  Seemingly  satisfied,  the  tethered  burros  munched 
away  on  boughs  of  palo  verde  cut  for  them  by  the  mozos. 


132      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

The  following  morning  we  continued  on  in  a  flood  of  rain, 
from  which  my  companions  sought  to  protect  themselves  by 
covering  their  shoulders  with  mountain  sheep  hides,  which 
I  permitted  them  to  take  from  the  packs,  while  I  revelled  in 
my  slicker.  In  places  we  saw  parallel  lines  of  stones  mark- 
ing the  ancient  and  now  unknown  Gulfo  Camino  of  the 
Padres;  the  greater  portion  of  the  time,  however,  we  had 
not  even  a  sign  of  trail  to  follow.  Finally,  late  in  the  after- 
noon, we  reached  a  sinister  appearing  rancho,  beyond  which 
Lario  suddenly  declined  to  move,  in  person  or  by  burro. 
In  extenuation  he  stated  that  he  was  unacquainted  with  the 
country  and  feared  its  dangers,  that  I  might  better  have 
taken  the  open  Sierra  Camino  over  Paraiso  way. 

As  I  was  unwilling  to  turn  back  or  aside,  I  at  once  paid 
off  the  fellow  and  then,  after  much  bargaining,  engaged 
two  burros  and  their  owner,  the  least  murderous  looking  of 
the  unprepossessing  mestizos  gathered  at  the  rancho^  to 
journey  with  me  as  far  as  the  Mission  of  Santa  Gertrudis. 
Rapidly  transferring  such  of  my  belongings  as  were  on 
Lario's  burros  to  the  newly  engaged  ones,  I  pressed  on  and 
managed  to  place  a  league  between  the  rancho  and  myself 
before  darkness  and  the  rain  compelled  us  to  camp  on  the 
edge  of  the  arroyo  down  which  we  were  riding.  In  the 
middle  of  the  night  I  looked  from  my  tent  and  observed  a 
curious  phenomenon.  Rain  drops  were  falling  though  the 
sky  was  cloudless  and  the  stars  shining  brightly! 

After  a  dripping  night,  we  hastened  on  into  a  region  of 
lofty  and  rugged  volcanic  sierras,  the  favored  retreat  of 
several  varieties  of  big  game.  Of  watering  places,  how- 
ever, we  found  but  one,  the  *^buried,"  or  sand-covered 
Tinaja  de  Santa  Marita.  At  this  tinaja  we  replenished  our 
canteens  and  then  turned  southwesterly  into  the  sierras. 
As  we  were  ascending  a  brushy  slope,  I  experienced  a  sharp 
pain  and  a  short  period  of  uncertainty  in  consequence  of  a 


An  unprepossessing  Mestizo 


THE  LOST  GULFO  CAMINO 


133 


bite,  just  below  my  left  knee  made  by  a  small,  greenish- 
brown  beetle.  I  captured  the  creature  and  at  once  en- 
deavored to  ascertain  from  the  mestizo  what  degree  of 
evil  might  result  from  the  bite,  for  the  pain  was  intense. 
Finally,  I  was  advised  that  the  beetle's  bite,  though  as  mala 
(evil)  as  the  sting  of  an  alacran  (scorpion)  was  not  as  mala 
as  a  beweiner.*  With  this  differentiation  I  was  obliged  to 
to  be  content  and  proceed. 

Unexpectedly,  a  dip  in  the  sierras  gave  us  a  view  of  the 
Gulf  spread  out  below  us  with  two  successive  islands  in  the 
middle  distance  and  the  outline  of  a  third  against  the  hori- 
zon. Surmising  that  these  were  the  Sal  si  Puedes  (Get 
Out  if  [thou]  Canst) ,  I  pointed  them  out  to  the  mestizo  and 
he  at  once  informed  me  that  the  two  nearer  islands  were 
San  Sebastian  and  San  Lorenzo  while  the  distant  one  was 
Tiburon.  Then,  extending  his  arm  dramatically  seaward, 
he  cried  out  in  the  vernacular,  ''There,  Senor,  the  home  of 
the  Seri !  Senor,  they  are  cannibals,  fiendish  cannibals."  I 
gazed  at  the  distant  shore  In  horror  and  fascination,  for 
much  had  I  heard  of  ill-famed  Tiburon.  Then  I  shivered, 
thinking  suddenly  of  the  various  explorers,  even  down  to 
Grindell,  not  yet  a  twelve-month  lost,  who  had  disappeared 
forever  on  those  shores  glistening  in  the  rays  of  the  setting 
sun. 

Swiftly,  the  clouds  darkened  the  sky  and  hurled  down 
upon  us  a  deluge  of  rain.  Then  night  fell  and  we  made 
camp. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  evening.  Santa  Gertrudis  was  full 
two  days  distant,  we  were  in  the  uttermost  corner  of  the 
American  continent  and  I  had  grave  doubts  concerning  my 
newly  acquired  and  dangerous  appearing  mestizo.  How- 
ever, under  the  soothing  influence  of  the  patter  of  the  drops 


*  General  local  term  for  rattlesnakes  of  all  varieties. 


134     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


on  the  canvas,  I  finally  fell  asleep  under  my  small  tent,  sup- 
plies about  me,  carbine  at  hand,  revolver  tied  to  my  wrist — 
and  my  mozos  at  my  knees,  partially  sheltered  by  the  tent 
flaps. 


CHAPTER  XI 


INTO  THE  ANTELOPE  COUNTRY 

SOME  forty-eight  hours  later  we  emerged  In  safety 
from  the  lost  Gulfo  Camino,  regaining  the  sierra 
trail  near  the  Mission  of  Santa  Gertrudis.  Here, 
as  a  fitting,  though  altogether  unpleasant,  climax  to  the 
varied  experiences  which  had  marked  our  travels  since  leav- 
ing San  Borja,  I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  serious 
trouble.  Throughout  the  day  the  insolent  eyes  of  the 
greedy  mestizo  had  been  fixed  covetously  on  my  outfit. 
Now,  the  very  evening  of  our  arrival  at  Santa  Gertrudis,  he 
discovered  in  the  currency  which  I  tendered  him  a  pretext 
for  the  quarrel  which  he  seemed  only  too  anxious  to  bring 
about.  His  pay  must  be  in  silver,  he  cried.  To  this  I 
made  brief  response,  saying  that  I  carried  only  currency 
and  the  smaller  coins.  For  a  moment  he  stared  at  me  with 
lowering  brows;  then  turned  aside,  muttering  a  surly  re- 
joinder :  silver  he  would  have — and  by  morning. 

There's  unlimited  picturesqueness  about  the  old  Spanish 
missions.  Take  Santa  Gertrudis,  for  instance.  Founded 
down  near  the  twenty-eighth  parallel,  early  in  175 1,  by 
Padre  Consag,  the  noted  Jesuit  explorer,  It  has  a  cut  stone 
iglesia,  and  a  renaissance-style  separate  campanile.  Some- 
times, however,  one  Is  not  Interested  In  the  picturesque.  As 
I  hunched  my  shoulders  up  against  the  massive  stones  of  the 
southern  wall  of  the  iglesia  of  Santa  Gertrudis,  slipped  my 
wrist  through  the  buckskin  cord  about  the  butt-ring  of  my 
Colts  .45,  fixed  a  weather  eye  on  the  swathed  form  stretched 

135 


136     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

out  not  three  paces  distant  and  realized  that  a  long  night 
was  before  me,  I  paid  no  heed  to  picturesque  surroundings, 
my  mind  being  occupied  exclusively  with  the  thought  that 
an  angry  mestizo  with  a  treacherous  six-inch  blade  rested 
within  the  serapa.  Indeed,  crouching  against  the  mission 
walls  for  the  interminable  hours  of  darkness  proved  a  de- 
gree too  romantic  for  any  comfort. 

Early  the  next  morning  an  ancient  crone,  staff  in  hand, 
tottered  past,  entering  the  mission.  While  she  told  her 
beads  within,  I  took  the  mestizo  for  a  little  walk  beyond 
the  native  graveyard.  As  we  strolled  along  I  held  forth — 
to  a  sullen  auditor,  I'll  confess — on  the  equality  of  national 
bills  and  coin,  plainly  a  most  unappreciated  dissertation. 
Presently,  however,  the  fellow  brightened  visibly,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  just  what  I  was  in  search  of — a  big,  long-eared 
jackrabbit,  sitting  bolt  upright  near  at  hand.  Some  min- 
utes later  we  returned  to  the  mission — again  past  the  ceme- 
tery. One  chamber  of  my  revolver  was  now  empty  and  a 
thoughtful  mestizo,  carrying  the  remains  of  a  badly  man- 
gled rabbit,  had  concluded  that  national  bills  were  legal 
tender.  Shortly,  possessed  of  the  right  amount  of  these 
bills,  he  rode  peaceably  away,  taking  the  back  trail  which 
led  to  his  rancho. 

This  matter  thus  settled  and  breakfast  disposed  of,  I  dis- 
patched my  small  mozo  in  search  of  a  Mexican  with  a  renta- 
ble burro  and  a  willingness  to  tackle  the  alleged  antelope 
country  down  on  the  eastern  border  of  the  Llanos  de  Ojo 
Liebre.  I,  for  my  part,  undertook  the  luncheon  proposi- 
tion. The  appetizing  odors  evidently  reached  the  boy,  for 
he  quickly  returned,  reporting  several  mestizos  and  Indians 
near  at  hand,  well  provided  with  burros  and  anxious  for 
meat  and  pesos,  but  mightily  averse  to  entering  upon  a  trip 
where  the  prospect  for  water  was  bad.  Knowing  what  I 
do  now,  I  would  have  been  equally  reluctant  myself.  As 


INTO  THE  ANTELOPE  COUNTRY  137 


it  was,  I  became  provoked,  according  to  my  wont  when  the 
natives  seemed  timorous.  In  another  moment,  however, 
the  jangle  of  merry  bells  diverted  my  attention  toward  the 
camino  from  the  west. 

I  looked  up  in  time  to  see  a  long  cavalcade  approaching 
with  much  show  of  high  peaked  sombreros  and  silver 
mounted  saddles,  of  daggers  and  clanking  spurs ;  altogether 
an  unwonted  and  unusually  fine  outfit.  The  leader  was  a 
tall,  slender  Mexican,  his  black  hair  splashed  with  white. 
In  single  file,  following  close  in  his  wake,  came  a  pretty  little 
girl,  a  thickly  veiled  young  woman,  dressed  in  somber  black, 
two  young  fellows — one  a  handsome  chap  with  an  unex- 
pected lettered  red  sweater — next  numerous  pack  animals 
loaded  with  hampers — one  even  bore  a  large  trunk — and 
finally  three  or  four  mozos.  The  entire  party  were  mounted 
on  long-legged  mules,  zebra-marked,  sure-footed  beasts. 
The  cavalcade  halted  beside  a  stream  some  rods  from  the 
mission,  whereupon  the  mozos  began  to  unpack,  under  the 
supervision  of  the  leader,  while  the  veiled  Senora,  accom- 
panied by  the  child  and  the  two  young  men,  approached  the 
iglesia.  Attracted  by  my  mountain  sheep  hides,  the  little 
party  swerved  over  my  way  and  he  of  the  red  sweater,  after 
introducing  himself  as  'Trank  Reavis,  of  San  Francisco  and 
Mexico,"  and  acquiring  my  name,  made  me  acquainted  with 
his  companions.  Though  alone  in  speaking  English,  Reavis 
was  joined  by  the  others  in  extending  to  me  the  hospitality 
of  camp.  In  fact,  every  member  of  the  party  was  most 
civil.  The  tall  man  proved  to  be  no  other  than  Don  Ema- 
liano  Ybarra  of  Calmalli,  leader  of  the  Pronunctamento  of 
1875,  one  of  the  last  of  the  Mexican  revolutionists. 
With  his  commanding  manner,  piercing  black  eyes  and  sharp 
acquiline  features,  the  Don  fitted  the  part  to  a  theatrical 
nicety. 

Siesta  time  over,  the  cavalcade  turned  into  the  mountains 


138     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

to  the  southeast,  bound  for  Santa  Rosalia.  Don  Emaliano, 
however,  took  the  opposite  direction,  first  advising  me  that, 
if  I  did  not  mind  taking  chances,  he  would  find  at  Calmalli 
an  old  Mexican  willing  to  enter  the  antelope  country  with 
me.  To  Calmalli,  therefore,  I  decided  to  turn  my  steps, 
and  at  sunset  that  afternoon  my  small  mozo  and  I  got  under 
way  and,  with  the  stars  to  guide  us,  traveled  northward  for 
nigh  two  leagues  before  unsaddling  for  the  night.  The  en- 
suing day,  after  eight  leagues  of  travel,  west  and  northwest, 
we  arrived  at  the  small  pueblo  of  Calmalli  where  we  spent 
St.  Patrick's  Day  and  a  portion  of  the  i8th,  waiting  for  the 
Don's  old  Mexican  to  bring  in  from  the  hills  two  burros. 
This  man's  name  was  Castro,  a  designation  as  indefinite  on 
the  California  Peninsula  as  Is  Smith  In  Uncle  Sam's  Cali- 
fornia. 

According  to  a  lost  Indian  tradition,  Calmalli  signifies 
**the  lion  at  the  spring";  it  Is  said  to  have  been  visited  by  a 
roving  Spaniard  in  the  year  1544.  I'll  wager  on  the  Incor- 
rectness of  that  date,  however.  In  1883  gold  placers  were 
discovered  In  the  neighborhood  and  prospectors  from  the 
four  quarters  of  the  globe  forthwith  flocked  to  the  diggings. 
One  of  these  gold  seekers  was  described  to  me  by  Don 
Emaliano,  his  eyes  the  meantime  sparkling  brightly.  She 
was  a  pretty  young  Americana,  traveling  alone,  her  outfit 
packed  on  a  gray  mule,  her  garb  the  regulation  miner's  red 
shirt,  overalls,  felt  sombrero  and  heavy  boots,  her  ready 
six-shooter  strapped  to  her  belt.  Around  her  claim  the 
mercurial  Mexicans  flocked  at  once,  Intent  on  fond  demon- 
strations.   But  the  fair  prospector  had  views  of  her  own. 

*'I  come  from  Tombstone,"  she  asserted.  In  perfect  Span- 
ish, ^'Tombstone,  Arizona,  where  three  times  a  day  the 
Coroner  makes  his  regular  rounds,  and  I  have  always  done 
my  modest  share  In  furnishing  him  with  employment.  You 
must  understand  that  I  do  not  want  any  Greasers  making 


INTO  THE  ANTELOPE  COUNTRY  139 


love  to  me."  And  with  this  she  nodded  in  a  most  cordial 
manner,  swinging  forward  the  holster  of  her  formidable 
revolver.  ^'I  do  hope,  caballeros/^  she  concluded,  smil- 
ingly, '^that  there  will  be  no  misunderstanding  of  my  views." 

''She  was  a  novel  type  for  our  gallants,"  chuckled  Don 
Emaliano,  reminiscently,  and  since  the  courtly  Revolutionist, 
like  most  men  who  have  braved  danger,  admitted  a  weak- 
ness for  an  attractive  face,  I  should  not  be  surprised  if,  in 
his  presence,  La  Americana  forgot  her  armament.  No 
suggestion  of  this  possibility,  however,  came  from  Don 
Emaliano. 

Some  years  ago  three  million  dollars  of  placer  gold,  to- 
gether with  the  mining  excitement,  passed  away  from  Cal- 
malli,  leaving  piles  of  torn  up  earth  and  a  small,  slumber- 
ing pueblo  where  water  is  scarce  and  a  vendible  commodity, 
where  provisions  are  limited  and  cartridges  sell  at  eight 
to  the  dollar.  Also,  it  costs  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
to  be  married,  devoutly  and  legally,  in  Calmalli.  Conse- 
quently, not  more  than  three  couples  have  been  thus  united 
there.  Divorce  being  out  of  the  question,  the  three  may, 
the  hundred  lacking  formal  certificates  assuredly  will,  stay 
in  harness  together,  for,  with  a  strange  spirit  of  fidelity. 
Peninsula  women  cling  most  faithfully  to  their  men  so  long 
as  the  latter  provide,  even  in  the  meagerest  measure,  for 
them  and  their  children. 

My  stay  at  Calmalli  was  made  unexpectedly  pleasant  by 
the  kindly  attention  of  a  Mr.  Hall,  an  American  mining 
man,  near  whose  home  I  had  made  camp.  As  soon  as  we 
met,  he  invited  me  to  his  house  on  the  strength  of  my — 
color,  I  was  about  to  say,  forgetting  for  the  Instant  that 
three  months'  exposure  to  the  Mexican  sun  had  given  my 
complexion  the  hue  of  an  Indian.  Before  accepting  his 
hospitality,  however,  I  insisted  that  he  examine  my  creden- 
tials, bringing  forth,  even  as  I  spoke,  a  sheaf  of  gun-per- 


140     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


mits,  passports,  etc.,  which  I  kept  stored  away  in  my  saddle- 
bags. As  he  waved  these  aside  most  good  naturedly,  the 
gorgeous  seal  on  one  of  the  documents  caught  his  eye.  This 
seal,  intended  primarily  for  Indians,  had  been  my  salvation 
with  at  least  one  tribe.  It  had  come  into  my  possession 
through  the  courtesy  of  Governor  Pardee,  of  California, 
who  had  kindly  provided  me  with  an  open  letter  to  the  Mexi- 
can authorities.  His  Secretary  of  State  had  attached 
thereto  an  immense  red  seal,  stating  that  the  latter  would 
serve  to  impress  the  natives. 

This  document  held  Mr.  Hall's  attention  for  a  moment, 
then,  after  scrutinizing  the  official  signatures,  he  hurriedly 
re-entered  the  house,  leaving  me  bewildered  by  his  actions. 
Indeed,  in  my  surprise  I  had  begun  to  reperuse  the  letter, 
seeking  some  clause  that  had  perhaps  escaped  my  notice, 
when  Mr.  Hall  returned,  bearing  a  generous  sized  bottle 
and  two  formidable  looking  glasses.  *^Had  you  only  men- 
tioned at  the  outset,"  he  explained,  proffering  a  glass,  *'that 
you  were  Charley's  friend,"  and  he  nodded  toward  the  seal 
and  signature  of  the  Secretary  of  State,  *^I  should  have  un- 
derstood your  immediate  needs."  With  that  he  filled  high 
my  glass,  regardless  of  protestations.  **Charley's  my 
friend,  too,"  he  remarked,  attending  to  the  second  glass. 
^^Here's  how!" 

Mrs.  Hall,  for  a  Mrs.  Hall  there  was — also  a  visiting 
friend  from  Los  Angeles — joined  with  her  husband  in  cor- 
dial hospitality.  With  the  three  I  partook  of  a  good  Ameri- 
can dinner  where  bread  took  the  place  of  everlasting  tortillas 
and  where  fried  chicken,  salad  and  vegetables  were  gen- 
erously served.  The  table  cleared,  we  chatted  together 
with  rapidly  increasing  intimacy  after  the  fashion  of  exiles 
come  together  in  a  strange,  wild  land.  ''Don't  be  too  much 
impressed,"  explained  the  hostess,  laughingly,  ''for,  where 
visitors  only  happen  in  about  once  a  year,  why — even  you 


INTO  THE  ANTELOPE  COUNTRY  141 


are  an  event/'  Ultimately  the  ladies  made  a  planetary 
wheel — they  both  seemed  partial  to  the  occult — cast  my 
horoscope  and  read  my  palm,  gathering  from  these  sources 
that  the  future  held  in  store  for  me  a  vital  danger,  a  vast 
fortune  and  several  other  interesting  prospects.  As  I  had 
picked  up  a  few  ore  specimens  which  Mr.  Hall  considered 
of  some  value,  we  at  once  proceeded  to  discuss  methods  of 
enjoyment  of  the  coming  fortune.  Indeed,  we  presently 
imagined  ourselves  dashing  bravely  down  the  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne behind  six  pure  white  trotting  mules,  their  tall  ears 
ornamented  with  the  yellow  flowers  of  the  blossoming 
maguay  plant,  and  attended  by  eight  outriders  on  galloping 
burros — altogether  a  picture  quite  sufficient  to  send  every 
self-respecting  Parisian  motor-car  into  a  panic. 

On  the  forenoon  of  the  i8th,  after  bidding  these  kindly 
Americans  good-bye,  I  went  on  to  the  main  part  of  the 
pueblo  where  Castro  was  to  join  me  and  where  I  expected 
to  have  a  bit  of  soldering  done  to  one  of  my  large  canteens. 
I  had  no  difficulty  in  locating  Castro  and  his  two  sonorous 
burros.  The  soldering  proposition,  however,  was  another 
matter,  for  the  mining  man  with  the  necessary  tools  was 
deep  in  fiesta,  the  occasion  therefor  being  the  Saint's  Day 
of  young  Josef  a,  the  belle  of  Calmalli — her  birthday,  that  is, 
for  in  Lower  California  an  infant  is  named  after  the  saint 
on  whose  day  he  is  born.  The  mining  office  being  de- 
serted, I  directed  my  steps,  necessarily,  toward  the  house 
of  the  charming  Senorita,  where,  as  I  had,  on  the  previous 
day,  been  formally  introduced,  a  cordial  reception  awaited 
me.  Indeed,  I  was  invited  and  urged  and  invited  again  to 
dismount  and  enter  the  casa.  Josefa  and  her  sisters,  in 
gala  attire,  altogether  attractively  pretty  and  neat,  were  re- 
ceiving. The  postmaster,  the  revenue  official  and  the  judge 
were  there,  also  the  mining  surveyor  of  soldering  abilities 
and  two  or  three  other  good  looking  young  fellows.  Two 


142     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


of  these  caballeros  were  making  music  with  guitar  and  man- 
dolin, while  one  of  the  sisters  served  cognac,  mescal  and 
sherry. 

*'The  American  gentleman  is  in  the  nick  of  time,''  they 
said. 

'Thank  you  all,"  replied  the  American  gentleman, 
cannot  delay,  for  the  day  advances  and  the  next  water  is 
two  days  distant.    If  I  may  impose  a  moment  on  the  Senor's 
time  for  soldering — " 

**Soldering?  It  will  be  no  imposition.  First,  however, 
you  must  join  in  Josefa's  jiesta.  Anyway,  the  middle  of  the 
day  is  the  best  time  for  starting  on  a  journey." 

To  temporize  was  my  only  hope,  so  I  took  refreshments 
in  turn  with  each  of  the  Senoritas  and  then,  revolver  and 
cartridge  belt,  camera  and  spurs  temporarily  discarded,  I 
waltzed  with  Josefa  and  later  with  her  sisters.  Though  it 
was  a  poor,  plain  little  shack,  this  casa,  with  earthen  floor 
and  but  a  single  room,  with  rude  chairs  and  beds  pressed 
back  against  the  walls  to  provide  space  for  the  dancers,  no 
stately  ballroom  was  ever  more  radiant  with  the  spirit  of 
hospitality  and  welcome.  The  Senoritas  danced  gracefully 
and  were  extremely  decorous.  Josefa,  just  fourteen,  was 
decidedly  charming;  her  oval  face,  lustrous  eyes  and  warm 
coloring  would  attract  attention  in  any  company.  At  length 
Don  Emaliano,  with  all  his  lithe  grace,  came  upon  the 
scene,  glasses  were  filled  again,  Josefa's  health  was  drunk, 
so  also  was  mine,  the  Don  and  I  made  speeches,  then  the 
other  Senors  made  speeches,  the  pretty  girls  dimpled  and 
smiled  irresistibly;  more  refreshments  were  passed,  the 
guitar  and  mandolin  twanged  merrily  and  every  one  talked 
a  gay  streak.  These  grown  men,  the  principal  citizens  of 
the  pueblo,  were  having  as  happy  a  time  as  children  on  a 
holiday,  for  such  is  the  temperament  of  the  Mexican. 
Meantime,  my  departure  seemed  a  forbidden  subject. 


INTO  THE  ANTELOPE  COUNTRY 


143 


When  I  again  urged  the  necessity  of  going,  therefore,  the 
Senors  argued  seriously  that  the  middle  of  the  day  was  a 
bad  time  for  the  beginning  of  a  journey,  that  the  evening 
was  even  better.  Finally,  at  noon,  I  parted  from  the  hos- 
pitable people  but  only  by  rushing  away  with  my  canteen 
still  unsoldered.  As  I  spurred  to  the  head  of  my  caravan, 
Don  Emaliano  exclaimed,  sorrowfully,  **Ah,  how  can  you, 
how  can  you !  Is  not  the  sweet  hostess  far  more  attractive 
than  any  antelope?"  while  the  Sefioritas  murmured  softly, 
^^Adios,  Senor,  Adios/*  and  the  mandolin  and  guitar 
twanged  a  parting  song.  Surely,  there  is  no  hurrying  in 
Mexican  California;  there  one  is  not  supposed  to  hasten 
even  after  antelope! 

Anxious  to  make  up  lost  time,  we  traveled  south  and 
southwest  from  Calmalli,  without  pause,  for  five  leagues, 
passing  through  a  hilly  country  and  ultimately  making 
camp  at  dusk  by  the  camino-slde,  where  the  presence  of 
much  excellent  bunch  grass  attracted  the  burros.  Before  the 
camp-fire  I  amused  myself  by  taking  note  of  the  proportions 
of  coffee  and  water  employed  by  my  Mexicans  in  making 
their  beloved  beverage;  something  more  than  one  of  the 
former  to  four  of  the  latter !  Next  I  turned  to  serious  study 
of  Don  Emaliano's  table  of  distances  between  waters. 
Here  it  is:  Calmalli  to  Ojo  Liebre,  twenty  leagues;  Ojo 
Liebre  to  San  Angel,  twenty-four  leagues;  San  Angel  to 
San  Ignacio,  ten  leagues.  In  other  words,  only  two  water- 
ing places  intervened  in  a  stretch  of  one  hundred  and  sixty- 
two  miles — and  even  the  Don,  himself,  was  ignorant  of  the 
country  between  Ojo  Liebre  and  San  Angel,  a  seventy-two 
mile  stretch  of  desert. 

Early  the  ensuing  morning  we  continued  our  journey 
southward.  As  we  were  now  in  a  fine  grass  country  where 
the  tall  cholla  made  excellent  hiding  places  for  antelope,  I 
walked  in  the  van  of  my  outfit  with  carbine  in  hand,  first 


144     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

causing  the  bell  to  be  removed  from  Coronado,  the  plucky 
leader  of  my  train.  Nevertheless,  though  we  advanced 
thenceforth  in  absolute  silence  over  the  sandy  trail,  no 
sight  of  game  rewarded  our  efforts  throughout  the  entire 
forenoon.  After  making  a  short  halt  for  a  mid-day  siesta, 
we  pressed  on  again,  with  an  exceedingly  hot  sun  overhead. 
Presently,  leaving  the  rolling  hills  behind,  we  entered  upon 
the  Llanos  de  Ojo  Liehre,  or  Plains  of  a  Hare's  Eye,  some- 
times also  called  Antelope  Plains,  an  immense  barren 
expanse,  bordered  by  the  San  Pablo  Sierras  on  the  east,  the 
Santa  Clara  Sierras  on  the  south  and  a  low  horizon  on  the 
west.  With  its  numerous  curving  swales  and  rounded  sand 
hills,  the  vast  field,  covered  with  waving  grasses,  bobbing 
wild  flowers  and  small,  fretful  leguminous  plants,  spread  out 
before  us  like  some  billowy  sea. 

Soon  I  saw  my  first  prong-horn  or  antelope.  He  was  to 
our  left,  some  three  hundred  yards  distant,  scurrying  away 
for  all  the  world  like  some  big,  awkward,  white-rumped 
calf  unexpectedly  disturbed  by  an  approaching  train.  How- 
ever, despite  his  haste,  he  had  an  inviting,  feminine  trick  of 
looking  over  his  shoulder  at  a  fellow,  so  I  started  in  pur- 
suit, on  foot,  with  carbine  and  camera  in  hand.  For  several 
miles  I  followed  that  provoking  beast,  frequently  waving 
my  bandana  in  the  most  orthodox,  story-book  fashion,  but, 
though  he  stopped  twice,  peering  at  me  inquiringly  from  the 
high  grass,  I  was  unable  to  get  a  shot.  Finally,  settling 
down  to  business,  he  whisked  out  of  sight  with  the  speed  of 
a  greyhound. 

After  staring  vainly  at  the  heat-waves  and  sand  hills  that 
had  swallowed  up  my  tantalizing  quarry,  I  concluded  that  It 
was  time  to  return  to  my  outfit;  but  look  as  I  might,  I  could 
see  nothing  except  the  undulating  plain  with  Its  sand  and 
grass.  Moreover,  the  sun  was  hot  and  the  excitement  of 
the  chase  gone.    I  realized  that  I  was  deadly  thirsty  and 


INTO  THE  ANTELOPE  COUNTRY  ^45 


that  my  canteen  was  tied  on  my  saddle.  Alarmed  over  the 
situation,  I  circled  about  most  wildly,  signalling  with  my 
revolver,  waving  a  bandana  from  hillock  tops  and  carrying 
on  generally  like  a  lost  child.  Finally,  collecting  my  wits,  I 
back-tracked — no  easy  trick  where  the  grass  grew.  Next,  I 
found  the  camino,  but  my  outfit  was  not  in  sight.  By  the 
time  I  caught  up  with  my  people  darkness  had  fallen  and 
my  thirst  was  maddening.  Invigorated  by  great  gulps  of 
water,  I  roundly  abused  Castro  for  deserting  me.  He, 
however,  explained  that  Jesiis  had  understood  the  first 
handkerchief  waving  to  be  a  signal  for  them  to  move  for- 
ward. After  some  growling,  I  simmered  down;  under  the 
circumstances  there  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

We  rode  on  for  a  time  in  heavy  silence  and  then,  dis- 
mounting, proceeded  on  foot,  thus  resting  the  burros.  The 
side-winders,  however,  were  also  using  the  camino  and  their 
presence  robbed  pedestrianism  of  all  Its  pleasure.  A  '*slde- 
winder,"  let  It  be  understood.  Is  a  short,  extremely  poisonous, 
rattlesnake  that  prefers  the  night  time  for  his  travels;  he 
acquires  his  name  from  the  peculiar  manner  In  which  he 
throws  his  coils  when  In  motion.  First  Coronado,  and  then 
the  other  burros  right  on  down  the  line,  would  jump  aside 
with  a  wild  snort  of  angry  terror  whereupon  we  would  do 
a  bit  of  side-stepping,  ourselves,  for  the  commotion  signified 
that  some  vicious  side-winder  had  the  right  of  way.  This 
jumping  business  got  on  my  nerves  so  completely  that  at 
8.30  P.  M.  I  ordered  a  halt  for  the  night,  much  to  Castro's 
disapproval,  since  It  was  a  dry  camp,  we  had  but  a  half  pint 
of  water  on  hand  and  Calmalll  was  fifty  wilderness  miles 
behind  us. 

Daylight,  on  the  20th,  showed  tracks  of  side-winders 
about  our  blankets  and  a  small  clump  of  young  cottonwoods 
a  half  league  dead  ahead.  Hastening  forward  with  our 
thirsty  burros,  we  shortly  arrived  at  the  clump.  In  the  shade 


146     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


of  tne  trees  were  two  pools  of  water,  known  as  the  Pozo 
de  Ojo  Liehre,  or  Well  of  a  Hare's  Eye,  though  why  so 
named  I  am  unable  to  explain.  I  will,  therefore,  merely 
submit  Castro's  dictum  that  **the  tradition  is  lost,  Seiior." 
My  first  information  concerning  this  water-hole  had  come 
from  an  old  journal.  Before  entering  Mexico  I  had  pro- 
vided myself  with  copies  of  such  logs  and  journals  of  Lower 
California  travel  as  were  to  be  found — a  strangely  limited 
number.  From  the  Ross  Browne  collection  of  1867  I  was 
aware  that  to  cross  the  Llanos  de  Ojo  Liebre  was  a  venture 
that  his  party  dared  not  essay;  indeed,  it  had  been  reported 
to  them  that  *^from  San  Ignacio  to  San  Angel,  a  salt,  al- 
most undrinkable  water,  is  seven  leagues;  from  San  Angel 
the  next  water  is  Ojo  Liebre,  thirty  leagues.  Ojo  Liebre 
is  much  resorted  to  by  coyotes  and  wild  animals,  many  of 
which  are  drowned  in  it  and  the  water  is  said  to  be  unen- 
durably  foul.  From  Ojo  Liebre  the  next  water  is  twenty 
leagues.  The  water  is  not  to  be  depended  on."  However, 
this  data  had  not  deterred  me,  for,  in  my  foolishness,  I 
was  rather  hankering  after  adventures,  and  there  Is  nothing 
venturesome  in  exploring  known  regions  or  keeping  to  open 
trails.  Therefore,  after  drafting  Castro  into  service  on  his 
reputation  of  having  crossed,  in  boyhood,  from  Ojo  Liebre 
to  San  Angel  I  had  entered  this  sinister  region  heedless  of 
consequences;  Castro  on  his  part,  had  come  to  me  inquiring 
concerning  my  public  offer  of  wages :  a  bonus  of  five  pesos , 
extra,  for  a  sight  of  a  berrendo  within  two  hundred  yards, 
and  a  promise  of  much  came,  after  such  sight,  had  won 
him  completely. 

We  spent  a  day  at  Ojo  Liebre.  During  the  forenoon 
we  boiled  and  strained  water,  a  precaution  which  greatly 
amused  my  companions,  who  could  see  no  objection  to  swal- 
lowing the  myriads  of  small  red  insects  inhabiting  the  well. 
In  the  afternoon  Castro  and  I  explored  a  vast  salt  bed  a 


INTO  THE  ANTELOPE  COUNTRY  147 


few  miles  distant,  being  amazed  by  the  marvelous  mirages 
flitting  above  the  brilliant  salt;  next  we  swung  away  toward 
the  Pacific  Ocean.  Between  floundering  in  the  salt  bogs  and 
slipping  about  the  sand-hills,  we  had  a  sad  time  of  it.  Not 
far  distant  was  grim  Black  Warrior  Lagoon,  the  scene  of 
the  wrecking  of  many  whaling  vessels  and  the  loss  of  many 
lives  from  the  time  of  the  ill-fated  Tower  Castle,  whose 
crew,  in  1838,  escaped  the  waves  only  to  die  of  thirst.  The 
last  survivor  of  this  ship  closed  his  journal  with  these  hope- 
less words:  **I  have  observed  the  symptoms  of  my  com- 
panions ;  it  is  but  reasonable  to  expect  that  my  time  will  soon 
come,  for  I  now  experience  those  same  symptoms."  As 
this  historical  data,  gleaned  from  a  coast  report  which  I 
carried  in  my  saddle-bags,  rather  gave  me  the  shivers,  I 
swerved  away  from  the  treacherous  coast  and  hunted  until 
evening  for  antelope,  getting  better  acquainted,  the  mean- 
time, with  Castro.  Well  past  the  threescore  mark,  he  was 
quick-witted,  full  of  dry  humor,  something  of  a  philosopher 
and  a  born  tracker.  In  appearance  he  was  slight  and 
wizened.  After  supper  I  set  him  to  work — while  I  boiled 
more  water  for  the  journey — soldering  the  leaky  canteen, 
which  he  did  with  metal  taken  from  an  empty  meat  can. 

During  our  absence  Jesus,  urged  on  by  a  boy's  appetite 
and  keenly  alive  to  the  prospective  dry  camps  and  conse- 
quent limited  cookery  before  us,  had  prudently  fried  some 
twenty  tortillas.  In  the  preparation  of  these  cakes — a 
staple  article  of  native  diet  on  the  Peninsula — a  liberal  sup- 
ply of  water  Is  required,  for  though  a  mozo  may  at  other 
times  neglect  his  ablutions  he  never  fails  to  rinse  his  hands 
before  mixing  tortillas.  This  preliminary  rite  concluded,  the 
Mexican  proceeds  to  mix  flour,  salt — and  lard.  If  he  pos- 
sess It — ^wlth  sufficient  water  to  produce  a  thick  dough, 
which  he  then  breaks  up  Into  balls  the  size  of  a  hen's  egg. 
He  next  takes  these  spheres,  one  by  one,  between  his  palms 


148     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


and  by  a  rotary  motion  of  the  hands,  varied  by  occasional 
kneading  between  the  fingers,  flattens  each  one  into  a  circu- 
lar cake  some  twelve  inches  in  diameter  by  an  eighth  of  an 
inch  in  thickness.  Tortillas  are  cooked,  one  at  a  time,  on 
any  sort  of  an  unswabbed  iron  griddle  that  may  be  avail- 
able. Not  infrequently  they  receive  a  delectable  further 
browning  by  being  unceremoniously  cast  upon  the  embers. 
If  made  with  little  or  no  lard  and  well  kneaded,  these  cakes 
are  excellent  to  eat  and  easily  digested.  The  evening  well 
advanced,  the  tortillas  cooked  and  the  water  boiled,  we 
sought  our  blankets,  ready  to  enter  the  desert  on  the  mor- 
row. 


CHAPTER  XII 


THIRST ! 

EARLY  in  the  morning  of  Wednesday,  the  twenty- 
first,  we  broke  camp,  bound  for  San  Angel,  the  next 
water,  distant,  according  to  Castro,  just  three  days. 
To  meet  the  prospective  thirst  we  had  my  saddle  canteen, 
containing  half  a  gallon,  the  mended  canteen  with  two  gal- 
lons, and  a  third  holding  two  and  a  half  gallons.  Before 
taking  our  departure,  we  drank  abundantly  and,  for  the 
sake  of  future  wayfarers,  I  planted  several  palm  seeds  about 
the  pozo,  while  my  Mexicans,  less  altruistically  inclined, 
drove  the  burros  to  the  water's  edge.  The  animals,  how- 
ever, having  slacked  their  thirst  the  previous  day,  stubbornly 
refused  to  drink.  We  headed  for  the  southeast,  following 
a  faint  trail  which,  Castro  averred,  had  been  made  by  the 
gold  seekers  bound  for  the  Sacramento  Placers  in  1849-50, 
many  of  whom  came  from  Panama  to  La  Paz  and  thence 
overland,  hundreds  of  leagues  northward.  For  half  a 
century  the  trail  had  not  been  used.  It  was  dead.  Frag- 
ments of  glass  from  broken  bottles,  a  line  of  grass  slightly 
darker  than  that  at  its  sides  and  as  erect  as  the  trimmed 
mane  of  a  mule — these  were  all  that  marked  the  course  of 
the  old  pioneers. 

Finally  we  came  to  a  number  of  stones  laid  upon  an 
alkali  surface  of  barren  ground.  They  were  in  the  form  of 
a  cross  and  their  points  indicated  the  four  quarters  of  the 
compass.  We  agreed  that  this  was  the  work  of  the  ancient 
Padres.    I  even  thought  it  possibly  a  relic  of  Padre  Sigis- 

149 


ISO     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

jnundo  Taravel,  who  crossed  these  plains  and  explored  Ced- 
ros  Island  in  1730.  Beyond  this  cross  there  was  no  sign  of 
a  trail.  Once,  indeed,  the  track  of  a  burro  crossed  our 
course  but,  on  examination,  Castro  and  Jesiis  pronounced  it 
to  be  that  of  a  wild  burro,  though  how  they  reached  their 
conclusion  concerning  this  bronco  when  all  Peninsula  burros 
are  left  unshod  is  more  than  I  can  say.  However,  accept- 
ing the  track  as  a  possible  token  of  our  being  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  old  camino,  we  immediately  spread  out  like 
a  fan  and  traveled  in  that  order  for  several  fruitless  hours. 
Then  the  ground  became  decidedly  rolling,  with  thickets  of 
cholla  and  palma  del  monte  growing  on  the  swells  and  mak- 
ing it  difficult  for  us  to  pick  our  way  forward  even  in  single 
file.  In  one  of  these  thickets  Jesus  got  lost  at  dusk  while 
pursuing  a  rabbit,  so  Castro  and  I,  after  vainly  calling, 
made  camp  and  built  a  large  fire;  After  climbing  a  palma 
del  monte  the  boy  perceived  the  brilliant  reflection  and 
reached  camp  rejoicing. 

That  night  a  heavy  fog  moistened  the  grass,  to  the  great 
relief  of  the  thirsty  burros.  In  the  morning  the  mist  was 
so  dense  that  Castro  had  a  wearisome  chase  and  lost  time  in 
locating  his  burros,  which  had  strayed  away  during  the 
night,  doubtless  searching  for  water;  and  next  my  compass 
came  into  play.  I  led  off  on  the  course  we  had  been  follow- 
ing when  the  trail  pinched  out  the  preceding  day,  that  is  17 
degrees  south  of  east.  The  fog  lifted  about  ten — I  could 
only  estimate  the  hour,  for  my  watch  had  been  broken  for 
over  a  month — and  soon  after,  while  crossing  a  cardon  and 
cholla  covered  hill,  I  came  upon  a  cinnamon  colored  wild  cat 
enjoying  a  sun  bath  on  the  limb  of  a  giant  cactus.  Two 
quick  rifle  shots  disturbed  pussy's  slumbers  and  he  disap- 
peared from  sight,  sliding  into  a  hole  in  the  limb.  Hearing 
the  racket  and  thinking  of  extra  pesos  and  much  came,  my 
Mexicans  rushed  up,  crying  out,  **An  antelope,  an  antelope?'' 


THIRST 


They  were  crestfallen  when  I  replied,  *'No,  un  gato  de 
campoJ^  (No,  a  wild  cat).  Unfortunately,  the  beast  had 
not  fallen  to  the  ground;  in  fact,  the  blood-stained  edge  of 
the  hollow  in  the  limb  evidenced  the  necessity  of  someone's 
ascending  the  tree  and  making  investigations.  When  I  sug- 
gested that  one  of  them  climb  after  the  gato,  both  Castro 
and  Jesus  looked  troubled,  and  accordingly,  to  preserve  that 
surest  safeguard  vouchsafed  to  the  exploring  American,  his 
reputed  national  disregard  of  all  dangers,  I  pulled  myself 
into  the  cardon,  revolver  ready.  Facing  the  retreat  of  an 
angry  cat  not  being  especially  attractive,  I  was  decidedly  re- 
lieved to  find  the  creature  lifeless. 

Meantime,  the  burros  had  wandered  away  and,  upon 
rounding  them  up,  my  Mexican  called  to  me  in  sudden 
alarm.  Hurrying  forward,  to  my  dismay  I  found  that  the 
burro  carrying  the  recently  mended  canteen  had  run  into  a 
cardon  with  the  result  that  the  solder  had  come  loose,  let- 
ting the  water,  save  perhaps  a  cup  full,  leak  out.  This  was 
more  serious,  for  we  had  been  drawing  heavily  on  the  other 
large  canteen,  and  in  my  saddle  canteen  there  was  barely  a 
pint  remaining.  Nor  was  this  all :  In  the  blankness  of  the 
situation  Castro  confessed  that  he  did  not  know  where  we 
were,  that  he  had  never  before  crossed  this  section  of  the 
great  plains.  In  other  words,  expecting  to  find  the  old  cam- 
ino  distinct,  he  had  been  tempted  to  undertake  the  trip  for 
the  sake  of  the  promised  pesos.  However,  he  said  he  knew 
the  Agua  of  San  Angel  and  that  it  could  not  be  over  a  day 
distant. 

It  was  now  nearly  noon.  We  pressed  on  and  very 
shortly  the  face  of  the  country  changed,  becoming  more  open 
and  very  sandy.  In  many  places,  moreover,  the  earth  was 
honeycombed  with  underground  runways  of  gophers  or 
similar  burrowing  creatures  so  that  the  burros  broke  through 
at  every  step.    Their  consequent  jolting  gait  was  overlooked 


152      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


by  us  in  the  more  serious  consequence  of  the  resulting  slow 
advance.  The  heat,  also,  now  became  intense  and  at  lunch 
time  Castro,  realizing  our  condition,  advised  against  the 
eating  of  any  kind  of  meat  lest  our  thirst  be  thereby  in- 
creased. A  few  lettuce  leaves,  the  remnant  of  a  present 
given  by  the  Halls,  were  so  fresh  and  cooling  to  the  palate 
that  we  relished  them  greatly. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  we  came  upon  three  antelope, 
though  I,  personally,  saw  only  one,  a  fine  prong-horn  buck. 
I  was  off  my  riding  burro  instantly,  and  signalling 
my  men  to  keep  the  train  in  motion,  dropped  on 
one  knee  and  began  pumping  lead  at  the  buck,  a  fair 
mark,  facing  me  at  two  hundred  yards.  Certainly  that 
antelope  had  never  before  seen  a  man,  for  he  stood 
calmly  for  two  shots  before  turning  tail.  Running  for- 
ward I  saw  no  blood,  but  immediately  caught  sight  of  my 
game  racing  down  a  wide  swale.  After  three  shots, 
he  fell,  kicking  violently.  I  rushed  in  pursuit,  dropped 
my  carbine  and  was  drawing  my  camera  from  its  case  when 
the  poor  creature  stumbled  to  its  feet  and  made  off  across 
the  swale.  I  supposed  the  buck  would  fall  again,  imme- 
diately, but  he  kept  on  until  three  more  shots  grounded  him. 
Then  I  hurried  forward  to  observe  this,  my  first  antelope. 
Five  bullets  had  struck  true,  two  of  them  coming  out  near 
together,  just  below  the  spine,  and  making  a  rent  as  large  as 
a  man's  hand.  He  was  a  true  Mexican  prong-horn — a 
delicate,  beautiful  creature;  white  and  tan  and  black,  with 
graceful,  black  prong  horns  set  just  above  large  eyes,  and 
with  the  long,  well-turned  head  of  a  blooded  greyhound. 
The  flashing  eyes  of  a  cornered  stag  or  the  green  orbs  of  a 
fighting  big-horn  have  never  appealed  to  me  as  did  this 
dying  antelope.  His  great,  frightened,  gazelle  eyes  looked 
up  to  me  with  so  pathetic  and  reproachful  an  expression  that 
I  would  gladly  have  given  him  back  his  life  had  such  power 


THIRST 


153 


been  mine.  Even  now  I  feel  regret  rather  than  pride  as  I 
recall  those  great  limpid  eyes. 

That  night  we  made  camp  in  a  small  clump  of  palmas  del 
monte,  our  stock  standing  disconsolately  about,  too  thirsty 
to  seek  their  food.  Dried  biscuits  and  lettuce  leaves  suf- 
ficed for  our  supper.  I  sat  up  quite  late  preparing  the  an- 
telope's head,  intending  to  have  it  mounted  for  an  approach- 
ing birthday  of  my  sister-in-law.  Before  turning  in,  Castro 
and  I  put  out  several  tin  plates  for  the  sake  of  a  possible 
fall  of  dew.  We  did  not  sleep  much.  I  awoke  about  mid- 
night with  my  throat  craving  water.  I  drained  nearly  a 
cup,  more,  in  fact,  than  my  share  for  the  time. 

Friday  morning  there  were  a  few  drops  of  dew  in  the 
plate,  we  licked  them  up  thirstily;  then,  careless  of  the  ante- 
lope steaks,  ate  dried  biscuit  and  baked  potatoes.  After 
this  slight  repast,  we  drew  in  our  belts  and  pursued  our 
easterly  course,  the  fog  saving  us  from  the  heat  for  a  couple 
of  hours.  Our  stock  of  water  now  consisted  of  two  cup- 
fuls,  and  all  that  relieved  the  seriousness  of  the  position 
was  Castro's  assurance  that  by  noon  we  would  strike  either 
the  Calmalli-San  Ignacio  camino  or  the  Agua  of  San  Angel. 

For  two  leagues  we  traveled  over  firm  ground,  radiant 
with  wild  flowers  growing  to  the  shoulders  of  the  burros. 
Then  the  soil  once  more  became  loose  and  yielding,  cholla 
and  cardones  superseded  the  wild  flowers  and,  to  the  increas- 
ing torment  of  our  thirst,  was  added  the  constant  menace  of 
cactus  thorns.  Gradually,  we  ascended  the  rising  slope  of 
the  sierras,  the  ground  changing  to  a  rock  heap,  densely 
grown  with  the  pernicious  cholla^  palmas  del  monte  and  car- 
dones. With  our  advance  came  the  greater  heat  of  the  day, 
bringing  intense  thirst  and  grave  anxiety.  Ultimately,  noon 
grew  near,  and  with  sinking  spirits  we  were  forced  to  admit 
that  there  were  no  signs  of  any  camino  approaching  our 
line  of  march  from  the  northwest — Calmalli  way.    By  mid- 


154     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


day  we  had  arrived  at  a  small  arroyo  on  a  high  mesa ;  here 
we  paused  briefly,  to  extract  thorns,  rest  and  relish  a  half 
spoonful,  each,  of  water.  White-limbed,  fresh-looking 
fpalos  blancos  were  growing  about  us,  but  in  the  absence  of 
water  their  very  freshness  was  derisively  cruel.  Castro 
now  urged  that  we  bear  away  into  the  sierras  to  the  north. 
Mindful  of  the  advice  given  me  in  February  by  my  friend, 
Senor  Dick,  however,  I  refused  to  consider  this  suggestion 
and  later  in  the  day,  with  threatening  revolver,  enforced 
my  determination  of  pursuing,  without  the  slightest  varia- 
tion, the  course  which  we  had  adopted  Wednesday  after- 
noon. Could  we  but  hold  out,  this  would  bring  us  to  some 
one  of  the  caminos  running  into  San  Ignacio  from  the  north 
or  south,  while  straying  would  merely  serve  to  eat  up  our 
endurance.  For  twenty-four  hours,  dead  ahead  against 
the  eastern  horizon  we  had  seen,  except  during  darkness 
and  fog,  a  mighty  cleft  peak,  our  adopted  landmark,  indi- 
cating to  us  the  direction  we  had  chosen — 17  degrees  south 
of  east.   From  this  course  there  should  be  no  turning. 

After  our  brief  rest,  we  pressed  on  over  flat  rocky  ridges 
and  across  sandy  arroyos,  the  whole  country  being  nearly 
impassable  because  of  the  dense  thickets  of  cacti  and  under- 
growths.  In  the  forenoon,  we  had  crossed  several  small 
water  courses,  parched,  salt-stained  by  the  evaporation  of 
alkali  water;  now  each  successive  arroyo  wore  a  fresh,  ver- 
dant carpet  that  deceitfully  invited  us  to  hasten  forward 
but,  on  near  approach,  always  proved  to  be  flowering  creep- 
ers, entangling  gourd-vines,  stubborn  cacti — Dead  Sea  fruit 
for  our  terrible  thirst.  Meantime,  Castro  and  I  were  com- 
pelled, again  and  again,  to  dismount  and  hack  a  passage 
through  the  deterring  growths.  Finally,  we  continued  on 
foot,  grim,  silent  figures,  moving  forward,  forward,  ready 
machetes  in  hand.  Early  in  the  afternoon  the  Mexicans  had 
split  open  a  young  viznaga,  or  barrel  or  fish-hook  cactus, 


THIRST 


155 


and  carved  out  great  chunks  of  the  firm,  interior  flesh;  fol- 
lowing their  example,  I  was  soon  chewing  some  of  this  to  a 
pulp.  It  looked  like  an  apple  and  yielded  considerable 
juice,  but  our  bodies  had  become  so  dry  and  our  throats  so 
parched  that  we  craved  great  gulps  of  water  rather  than 
this  impalatable  moisture.  Perhaps  an  hour  later  Castro 
bent  down  suddenly,  with  a  low  gasp  of  delight,  and 
wrenched  loose  from  a  crevice  among  the  rocks  a  small 
plant  made  up  of  a  number  of  pale  delicate  shoots.  Ex- 
plaining that  this  was  the  siempre  vivens  and  muy  bueno, 
the  old  fellow  equably  divided  up  the  shoots.  We  chewed 
them  greedily.  The  siempre  vivens  in  Its  appearance 
greatly  resembles  the  lily  of  the  valley — always  a  favorite 
flower  with  me,  now  doubly  so,  for  the  leaves  and  flower 
stems  of  this,  its  desert  cousin,  proved  to  be  juicy  and  an 
astringent,  by  no  means  unpleasant,  to  the  throat  and 
tongue. 

Over  seventy  hours  had  elapsed  since  our  poor  burros  had 
had  water!  Now,  however,  I  shortly  noticed  a  wise  old 
burro  of  Castro's,  and  Cabrillo,  my  large,  half  bronco 
burro,  tearing  at  a  small,  cylindrical  cactus.  The  Mexicans 
at  once  nodded  approvingly,  and  sighting  another  similar 
cactus,  tore  it  loose  for  the  burros.  This  cactus — not  over 
an  Inch  In  diameter  by  four  in  height — they  termed  the 
chiquita  pithaya.  It  contained  much  moisture.  Almost 
immediately  we  were  still  further  encouraged  by  the  sight 
of  two  doves  which,  according  to  the  Mexicans,  betokened 
the  proximity  of  water.  As  the  hours  dragged  by,  how- 
ever, without  materialization  of  these  hopes,  our  spirits  fell 
lower  than  ever. 

Darkness  found  us  on  a  rocky  mesa  where  we  unpacked. 
After  pushing  aside  the  large  loose  stones  and  opening  our 
blankets  on  the  half  cleared  spots,  we  sank  down  apatheti- 
cally, heedless  of  the  numerous  stones  remaining.    For  sup- 


156      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


per  we  ate  baked  potatoes,  lump  sugar  and  prunes.  Each 
of  us  also  gulped  down  a  spoonful  dole  of  water:  this  left 
us  less  than  a  cupful  in  stock. 

Neither  of  the  Mexicans  had  as  yet  uttered  a  word  of 
complaint,  nor  did  they  now.  Jesus,  poor  boy,  lay  for- 
lornly on  his  blanket,  careless  of  the  stones  beneath.  His 
eyes  looked  preternaturally  large  and  pathetic.  Feeling 
that  death  was  probably  near  at  hand,  my  main  regret  was 
for  him.  Castro  was  reaping  the  chances  of  his  specula- 
tion. I  had  challenged  fate  by  attempting  to  explore  the 
country,  but  poor  Jesus  was  a  mere  pawn  indentured  to  me 
by  his  father.  Eventually,  I  made  a  few  entries  in  my 
journal,  smiling  grimly  as  I  noted  that  they  filled  out  the  last 
page  in  the  volume.  By  this  time  Jesus  had  sunk  into 
broken  slumber;  Castro,  swathed  in  his  serapa,  crouched 
by  the  small  fire ;  with  tired  muscles  relaxed,  I  was  stretched 
out  at  length  on  my  blankets,  disheartened  and  hopeless. 
Fortunately  for  me,  sleep  came,  bringing  temporary  relief. 

With  a  feverish  start  I  awoke,  possessed  by  a  maddening 
thirst.  The  air  was  cruelly  dry.  No  dampening  mist  had 
rolled  in  to  cool  us.  The  night  was  silent  and  starry.  At 
other  times  in  my  life  I  had  been  on  long  stretches  without 
water  and  had  suffered  from  thirst — but  never  like  this. 

With  a  ghastly  alertness  ideas  and  thoughts  came  march- 
ing down  the  pathways  of  my  brain  and  instantly  I  thus 
summed  up  the  situation :  We  have  little  water  and  no  sup- 
ply is  near — San  Angel  has  evidently  been  passed  to  our 
right — and  yet  our  parched  condition  is  such  that  our  sys- 
tems imperatively  demand  refreshment.  However,  we 
have  but  a  few  drops  of  water  and  the  nature  of  the  country 
is  such  that  even  with  fresh  animals  or  greater  individual 
energy  there  could  be  no  hastening  forward  more  rapidly 
toward  San  Ignacio.  Unquestionably  even  more  terrific 
thirst  will  come  and  with  it — Death. 


THIRST 


157 


And  yet  death  always  seems  the  other  fellow's  portion, 
and  while  one  is  possessed  of  vigor  its  immediate  personal 
proximity  is  hard  to  realize.  Then  it  came  over  me  that 
the  many  other  poor  devils  who  had  met  death  by  thirst  on 
the  Lower  California  deserts  had  doubtless  found  a  similar 
difficulty  in  realizing  the  nearness  of  the  end.  On  the  heels 
of  this  thought  there  flashed  across  my  mind  the  closing 
entry  made  by  the  last  of  the  crew  of  the  ''Tower  Castle/' 
and  I  repeated  to  myself,  *^It  is  but  reasonable  to  expect  that 
my  time  will  soon  come!^  Yes,  reason  pointed  that  way  for, 
face  to  face  with  the  domination,  the  angry  gripping  of  such 
maddening  thirst,  our  minds  certainly  would  shortly  lose 
their  balance,  their  grasp,  and  from  an  experience  with 
tragedies  of  the  desert  I  knew  that  such  mental  unbalancing 
— insanity — was  the  prelude,  the  first  step,  incident  to  death 
by  thirst. 

At  this  I  grew  rebellious.  I  would  not  give  in.  I  was 
not  fated  to  die  in  such  manner — not  yet,  at  least.  More- 
over, I  belonged  to  the  superior  nation  and  I  must  keep  up 
my  end  before  my  Mexicans.  With  this  there  flitted  across 
my  mind  the  gay  pictures  of  fortune  predicted  by  the  kindly 
ladies  at  Calmalli  and  I  found  sardonic  amusement  in  blam- 
ing them  as  false  prophetesses.  My  thoughts  hurried  on 
and  I  began  to  consider  a  plan.  Meantime  I  ate  a  few  bis- 
cuit crumbs  and  lumps  of  sugar,  moistened  with  a  teaspoon- 
ful  of  whiskey.  Next  I  seized  upon  my  journal  and  made 
a  brief  closing  note  across  the  margin  of  the  last  page;  then, 
scrawling  on  its  cover  my  brother's  address  and  a  simple 
direction  In  Spanish  that  it  be  sent  to  him,  I  tied  the  book 
with  a  strong  cord  and  slipped  it  into  my  saddle-bags. 

Looking  up  from  this,  I  saw  Castro's  eyes  upon  me.  He 
evidently  had  understood  the  Intent  of  my  actions,  for  he 
nodded  approvingly.  Passing  from  him  my  glance  wan- 
dered across  the  mesa,  with  Its  cholla  and  kindred  shadows; 


158      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

it  noted  the  mist  that  had  stayed  on  the  plains  below ;  for  an 
instant  it  viewed  the  clear  sky  giving  sinister  promise  of  an 
early  day  of  heat,  then  again  fell  upon  the  old  Mexican  in 
his  serapa.  On  the  spur  of  the  moment  I  addressed  him  in 
English:  "How  now,  old  boy?"  I  said,  forcing  a  grin. 
Though  the  words  were  meaningless  to  him,  the  spirit  he 
appreciated  and  a  smile,  brave  but  frightfully  ghastly,  crept 
over  his  wizened  features  and  seemed  to  run  like  some  stray 
electric  current  out  into  his  crisp  gray  curls.  Presently  in 
hollow  tones  that  I  even  yet  recall,  he  made  his  answer. 
^^Sehor,*^  he  said,  ^^manana,  manana  no  agua,  mahana  tardes 
— nosotros  muertus/^  (Sir,  to-morrow  morning  no  water, 
to-morrow  afternoon — we  die.)  His  words  voiced  the  con- 
clusions that  I  had  not  dared  express.  I  shivered,  and 
then,  ^^Si,  senary  I  replied,  quietly. 

For  a  long  time  after  this  we  sat  by  the  coals,  brooding 
silently.  Then  he  made  inquiry  whether  I  had  wife  and 
children.  I  shook  my  head.  '^Bueno^  he  muttered,  and 
without  further  words  I  knew  the  trend  of  his  thoughts. 
Later  I  secured  an  hour  of  broken  sleep,  but  long  ere  dawn 
Castro  roused  both  Jesus  and  me  that  we  might  lose  no  pos- 
sible chance  of  travel  before  the  heat  of  the  day.  Suffering 
though  I  was,  I  could  but  note  the  quiet,  even  way  in  which 
both  Mexicans  went  after  the  burros — poor  creatures,  they 
had  stayed  near  by,  their  heads  hanging  disconsolately — and 
put  on  the  packs,  performing  their  wonted  duties  as  faith- 
fully as  though  the  brightest  prospects  were  before  them. 
In  response  to  a  query  as  to  how  he  felt,  Jesus  answered 
simply,  ^'Muy  mala,  Senor/^ 

To  lighten  the  loads  of  our  weary  burros,  I  had  regret- 
fully directed  Castro  to  throw  aside  the  forequarters  of  the 
antelope.  At  the  same  time  I  divested  myself  of  my  cam- 
era, spurs,  cartridges,  even  of  my  revolver,  placing  them  all 
in  my  cantinas;  thus  lightly  accoutered,  and  armed  only  with 


THIRST 


159 


a  short  machete j  I  was  prepared  for  the  finish  of  the  chapter. 
I  now  submitted  the  plan  on  which  I  had  determined:  if  we 
found  no  water  or  camino  by  midday,  the  burros  should  be 
unpacked,  unsaddled  and  turned  loose,  the  Mexicans  should 
put  up  my  small  tent  and  lie  quietly  in  its  shade  while  I,  as 
the  hardiest  in  the  party,  should  push  on  ahead,  find  San 
Ignacio — if  possible — and  then  hasten  rapidly  back  on  a 
fresh  animal,  bringing  with  me  a  supply  of  water.  Castro 
approved  of  this  scheme,  Jesiis  nodded  and  we  began  the 
day's  march. 

This  was  Saturday,  the  24th  of  March.  For  three  days 
we  had  been  traveling  in  a  dry,  smothering  atmosphere, 
where  extreme  perspiration  is  the  rule.  On  Wednesday 
we  had  had  a  reasonable  amount  of  water,  some  five  cups 
each.  Thursday  we  had  had  probably  three  cups  each,  Fri- 
day not  over  three  spoonfuls — and  on  this  day  Castro  and  I 
had  been  on  foot  most  of  the  day  and  the  brush  had  been 
dense.  We  began  Saturday  with  a  spoonful  each:  three 
spoonfuls  remained.  A  personal  experience  of  this  nature 
is  not  pleasant  to  recall,  and  I  shall  hurry  over  our  further 
sufferings. 

A  deep  chasm  soon  confronted  us,  but  after  much  diffi- 
culty we  found  a  place  where  we  could  descend  and  down 
which  we  persuaded  the  burros  to  venture;  poor  creatures, 
they  seemed  to  realize  that  It  was  no  time  to  be  stubborn 
over  steep  places  for,  with  Coronado  leading  bravely,  they 
jumped  after  me  from  boulder  to  boulder.  In  one  place 
we  found  a  number  of  the  stempre  vivens  growing  and  these 
we  seized  upon  with  avidity.  On  we  went,  down  one  moun- 
tain side  and  up  another.  None  of  us  had  anything  to  say. 
Once  or  twice  the  Mexicans  were  disposed  to  stray  from 
our  course,  but  I  grimly  persuaded  them  Into  line.  About 
eleven  in  the  forenoon,  while  searching  In  a  side  arroyo  for 
a  possible  tinaja^  I  came  across  a  group  of  graves.  This 


l6o     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


dispiriting  discovery  I  kept  from  Jesus,  though  I  made  it 
known  to  Castro.  The  old  man  shook  his  head,  briefly 
remarking  that  doubtless  some  considerable  party  had  died 
of  thirst  and  that  we  would  soon  be  In  the  like  fix — only 
we  might  have  to  wait  a  time  for  stones  to  be  piled  over  us ! 
This  set  me  to  thinking  of  an  ancestor  hunt  I  had  once 
made  in  an  overgrown  cemetery  at  Newtown,  Long  Island, 
and  I  began  to  chuckle  over  the  recollection  that  even  the 
most  magnificent  tombstones  in  that  cemetery  were  entirely 
neglected.  The  note  of  insanity  which  rang  in  my 'laughter 
checked  these  thoughts,  sharply;  but  in  another  moment 
ghoulish  memory  was  picturing  the  appearances  of  the  vari- 
ous dead  men  whom  I  had  chanced  upon  at  different  times 
and  particularly  one  found  near  Lake  Tahoe;  above  this 
man's  body  I  had  helped  place  a  rude  board,  inscribed  from 
the  Psalms,  ''The  mountains  shall  bring  peace.'' 

The  recollection  of  this  inscription  still  sharp  In  my  brain, 
a  dull  effort  to  find  a  proper  translation  In  Spanish  engross- 
ing my  attention,  laughter  on  my  Hps — to  such  a  state  had  I 
come,  when  I  saw  near  at  hand  the  familiar  parallel  lines  of 
stones  which  mark  a  roadway  of  the  time  of  the  padres. 
My  wild  cry,  ''Un  camino,  un  caminoP'  brought  my  com- 
panions hurrying  forward  with  strained,  doubting  expres- 
sions that  were  pathetic. 

After  following  this  trail — It  came  from  the  southwest, 
San  Angel  way,  we  learned  later — for  a  few  rods,  we 
halted  and  wet  our  lips  with  the  few  drops  remaining  in 
the  canteen  and  which  we  had  been  keeping,  tacitly,  for  the 
first  who  should  give  out.  Assuaging  the  further  poignancy 
of  our  sufferings  by  chewing  viznaga  pulp,  we  kept  on  for 
about  ten  miles.  Then,  unexpectedly,  the  blank  rocky  mesa, 
over  which  we  were  traveling  opened  before  us.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  chasm,  five  or  six  hundred  feet  below,  lay  a 
long,  narrow  valley,  of  perhaps  two  thousand  acres,  with 


THIRST 


i6i 


water — pools  of  fine,  rippling  water  flowing  through 
green  masses  of  sedge — and  palms — thousands  of  tall, 
graceful  palms,  shading  numerous  thatched  houses — and 
over  to  the  further  side  a  beautiful  stone  church  with  spires 
and  belfry  rising  aloft.  Up  the  trail  came  a  homelike  cow, 
closely  followed  by  three  little  barefoot  girls,  clad  in  pink 
and  red. 

Off  came  my  sombrero.  **Hurrah,  hurrah!"  I  cried 
hoarsely. 

**San  Ignacio,  San  Ignacio,"  mumbled  old  Castro,  while 
Jesus,  hysterically  laughing,  cried  out,  ^'Agua,  aguaP^ 


Part  11 

THE  WIDENING  OF  THE  TRAIL 


CHAPTER  XIII 


SAN  IGNACIO,  THE  FAVORED 

DOWN  the  camino  we  plunged,  following  hard  in  the 
wake  of  our  thirst-crazed  burros.  Some  slow 
dragging  moments  brought  us  into  the  midst  of  a 
group  of  natives  lounging  in  dreamy  apathy  before  the  open 
doorway  of  a  small  shack  built  against  the  base  of  the  cliff. 
^^Agua,  aguaP^  we  demanded,  gaspingly,  with  naught  by 
way  of  preliminary  greeting.  Our  hoarse,  broken  voices, 
our  dry,  mumbling  lips,  our  frenzied  manner,  our  burros 
wading  belly-deep  in  the  stream  beyond:  no  need  to  amplify 
such  signs  to  children  of  an  arid  land,  to  a  people  reared 
amid  tragedies  of  the  desert.  On  the  instant,  seizing  cups 
and  gourds  they  dipped  up  cooling  water  from  an  earthen 
olla^  splashing  our  dry  faces,  our  dry  necks,  our  dry  arms 
with  large  gourds  of  blessed  water,  then  they  gave  us  each 
a  brimming  cup,  a  great,  cooling,  life-renewing  cup  of  wa- 
ter, cautioning  us  the  meantime  lest  we  drink  overmuch. 

And  thus  I  came  to  San  Ignacio,  the  favored.  That  we 
were  in  an  out-of-the-world  place  was  now  brought  home 
to  me,  for  my  accent  disclosing  my  nationality,  one  of  the 
natives  exclaimed,  *^Ah,  Seiior,  you  are  an  Americano! 
Ten  months  past  there  were  here  two  of  your  compatriots, 
bird  collectors  from  your  great  city  of  Washington.  But 
they  came  hither  safely,  having  taken  the  upper,  the  well- 
beaten  camino.  Ah,  three  strange  Americanos  within  the 
year!" 

Soon  we  made  camp  in  the  shade  of  two  great  olive  trees 

165 


1 66     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


where  my  tent  opened  out  upon  the  stream  and  where  palms 
and  orange  trees  were  near  by.  Thoroughly  exhausted, 
we  stretched  out  in  the  shade,  now  and  again  drinking  more 
water  or  eating  luscious  fruit,  for  we  were  well  supplied 
with  oranges,  lemons,  dates  and  sugar-cane,  gifts  of  kindly 
people  who  had  come  quietly  to  our  camp  with  their  offer- 
ing as  soon  as  the  news  of  our  fearful  experience  had  reached 
them.  In  the  late  afternoon,  with  sharp  clatter  of  hoofs 
there  dashed  by  a  party  of  gentlemen  mounted  on  spirited 
Durangian  horses,  with  silver  mounted  bridles  and  saddles 
and  carrying  long  swords  thrust  under  the  left  knees.  Later, 
a  gay  party  of  these  Caballeros,  with  Signoras  and  Senoritas 
in  their  midst,  swept  by,  bowing  gravely  as  they  passed,  and 
calling  forth  in  courteous  tones,  ^^Biienas  tardes,  Senor; 
buenas  tardes/^  Though  seated  in  strangely  designed  side- 
saddles, the  ladies  rode  with  extreme  grace.  The  peculiar 
features  of  these  saddles  consisted  in  the  hanging  of  the  stir- 
rup at  the  right  side  of  the  horse  and  in  the  presence  of  a 
high  back  or  support  which  arose  above  the  cantel  and  ex- 
tended to  the  left. 

Noting,  in  a  dazed  manner,  these  passers  by,  I  rested 
quietly  in  camp,  accepting  the  readily  given  information  of 
not  infrequent  visitors.  Meantime  I  drank  water;  by 
nightfall  I  had  absorbed  over  two  gallons  and  yet  I  craved 
more;  indeed,  there  seemed  no  abatement  to  my  thirst,  my 
parched  system  absorbing  the  moisture  as  the  desert  sands 
drink  in  the  drops  of  a  rare  August  thunder  shower.  The 
following  day  found  me  feverishly  nervous.  Fortunately, 
however,  a  delightful  young  cahallero,  Senor  Villavacensio, 
soon  appeared  and,  seemingly  appreciative  of  my  mood, 
took  me  for  a  stroll  along  the  winding,  palm-shaded  streets 
of  the  pueblo  and  through  the  quaint  precincts  of  the  ancient 
mission.  Before  my  interest  in  these  scenes  had  even  be- 
gun to  abate  he  turned  toward  a  substantial  residence  where 


SAN  IGNACIO,  THE  FAVORED 


167 


I  was  formally  presented  to  a  dignified  Senora  and  her  two 
daughters,  who  inquired  kindly  concerning  my  home  and 
my  welfare.  From  this  pleasant  home  we  passed  on  to 
another  and  another,  finding  in  each  the  same  genial  hos- 
pitality. With  their  bright  eyes,  soft  voices,  fluttering  fans 
and  easy  grace  the  Senoritas  were  altogether  adorable ;  win- 
some, nut-brown  maids,  every  one  of  them,  their  pretty 
faces  set  off  by  the  fascinating  rebozo,  or  Mexican  head- 
dress. 

Our  calls  concluded,  we  dropped  in  at  a  cantina  and  then 
another  and  another,  finding  in  each  drinking,  smoking  and 
billiard  playing,  but  no  drunkenness.  We  drank  mediocre 
imported  beer  at  four  reales  the  small  glass  and  a  fine  qual- 
ity of  native  wine  at  half  a  real  the  generous  sized  glass. 
With  evening  came  the  sound  of  guitars  and  violin  and  I 
was  ushered  into  an  adobe  where  a  baile  or  ball  was  in  prog- 
ress. The  principal  citizens  of  the  pueblo  were  in  attend- 
ance, dancing  gravely  with  the  Senoritas  while  the  Senoras 
looked  on  with  seeming  content.  I  was  courteously  intro- 
duced to  several  of  the  young  ladies  and  I  found  them  ex- 
cellent waltzers  even  though  our  dancing  floor  was  earthen. 
Between  the  dances  mescal  was  passed  for  the  men  and  wine 
and  beer  for  the  women,  but  none  indulged  too  freely.  The 
scarcity  of  bachelors  was  noticeable.  This  was  explained 
to  me  by  the  statement  that  the  majority  of  the  young  men 
were  employed  in  the  copper  mines  at  Santa  Rosalia,  too 
far  distant  to  permit  of  their  attendance  at  the  baile. 

Surely  of  San  Ignacio  I  can  write  only  in  the  kindliest  vein 
and  such,  I  am  sure  must  also  be  the  attitude  even  of  those 
who  have  neither  been  rescued  by  its  streams  nor  taken  cap- 
tive by  the  charm  of  its  history  and  traditions  for,  with  its 
oasis-like  aspect  and  the  impulsive  hospitality  of  the  inhabi- 
tants, the  little  pueblo  is  a  delightful  place,  marvelously  In- 
viting to  the  traveler.    By  whatever  camino  he  may  ap- 


1 68     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


proach,  it  comes  as  a  surprise,  the  rocky  mesa  opening 
unexpectedly  before  him  and  disclosing  the  verdant  arroyo 
below,  with  its  tens  of  thousands  of  waving  palms,  its  glis- 
tening orange  trees,  its  green  sedges  gemmed  with  pools  of 
limpid  water,  its  thatched  roofed  jacales — shacks  made  of 
thatch — its  substantial,  flat  roofed  adobes  and  magnificent 
stone  mission  church.  There  are  a  thousand  inhabitants  in 
the  narrow  valley.  They  cultivate  about  two  thousand 
acres  of  rich,  well-watered,  ashy  loam,  volcanic  in  its  origin 
and  of  surpassing  fertility,  which  rewards  them  with  pros- 
perity. In  the  arroyo  of  San  Ignacio  oranges,  lemons, 
sugar-cane,  olives,  figs  and  grapes  mature,  unchallenged  by 
frost,  while  palms — sixty  thousand,  it  is  said,  grow  in  pro- 
fusion; the  fan  palm,  useful  for  thatching,  and  the  red, 
green,  yellow  and  black  date  palm  all  are  there.  Enough 
grain  is  raised  and  enough  leather  prepared  for  home  con- 
sumption, while  long  trains  of  burros  and  mules  carry  away 
for  export  cargoes  of  fresh  and  dried  fruits,  wine  and  a 
native  sugar  called  panoche. 

The  history  of  this  favored  valley  is  that  of  its  mission. 
Nigh  two  centuries  ago  a  Jesuit  explorer,  one  Sistlago,  came 
exultantly  to  Loreto,  reporting  the  discovery  of  a  deep 
arroyo  with  much  water  and  sedge  grass  and  many  Indians. 
Happy  coincidence:  even  then  a  caravel  was  entering  the 
ofiing  bringing  to  California  Padre  Juan  Bautista  Luyando, 
a  brilliant  and  socially  accomplished  missionary,  eager  to 
establish,  personally,  a  mission  dedicated  to  San  Ignacio,  the 
founder  of  the  Society  of  Jesus.  To  Kadakaman,  or  the 
Valley  of  Sedges,  therefore,  the  two  padres,  pioneer  and 
aristocrat,  hastened,  founding  there  the  Mission  of  San 
Ignacio  de  Kadakaman. 

This  was  In  the  year  1728.  Some  three  decades  before 
Padre  Juan  Maria  Salvatierra,  a  priest  of  the  Society  of 
Jesus,  a  native  of  Milan,  of  noble  parentage  and  ancient 


SAN  IGNACIO,  THE  FAVORED 


169 


Spanish  descent,  had  landed,  with  an  escort  of  six  soldiers, 
on  the  east  coast  of  the  Peninsula.  In  the  seventy  years 
succeeding  this  event  and  ending  with  their  expulsion  in 
1768,  the  Jesuits  established  such  a  network  of  missions 
throughout  the  Peninsula  that,  although  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury was  pre-eminently  a  fervid  period  of  mission  construc- 
tion in  their  Spanish  Majesties'  realms,  in  no  portion  thereof 
was  more  ardor  shown  than  in  California.  Not  the  Cali- 
fornia of  these  days,  but  the  Isla  de  California  as  it  was 
termed  by  the  early  chroniclers,  the  mysterious  ^'Island" 
of  pearls,  mermaidens,  Amazons  and  treasure,  now  classed 
as  the  Mexican  territory  of  Baja  California  and,  aside  from 
its  name,  relatively  as  much  a  terra  incognita  as  in  the  days 
when  voyagers  charted  it  as  an  island  and  peopled  its  val- 
leys with  roving  and  alluring  Amazons. 

Of  the  substantial  work  accomplished  by  the  energetic 
Jesuits  during  the  threescore  and  ten  years  of  their  Cali- 
fornia service,  San  Ignacio  was  the  pivotal  point,  second 
only  to  sacred  Loreto.  From  the  year  of  its  dedication 
the  mission  was  the  starting  point  for  their  venturesome 
explorers  and  an  enticing  field  for  their  scholarly  priests. 
At  the  time  of  the  expulsion  of  these  padres  the  church  and 
subsidiary  buildings  at  San  Ignacio  were  still  in  course  of 
construction;  completed,  a  few  years  later,  by  the  Domini- 
cans, they  were  thereafter  considered  among  the  finest  in 
the  country. 

The  Mission  of  San  Ignacio  has  its  traditions  as  well 
as  its  history:  A  queen  of  Spain,  it  is  said,  gave  a  million 
and  a  half  of  pesos  for  its  construction  and  over  fifty  years 
of  labor  were  required  for  its  completion;  in  the  distant 
Santa  Clara  Sierra,  within  sight  of  the  lofty  spires  of  the 
church,  lies  hid  away  the  mysterious  Lost  Mission  of  Santa 
Clara;  finally,  saintly  padres  have  been  interred  before  the 
altar  of  San  Ignacio  and  beneath  it  there  is  secreted  a 


1 70     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


mighty  chest  of  treasure.  Short  has  been  the  shrift  allotted 
to  the  wickedly  avaricious  who  have  sought  this  treasure; 
for  should  it  once  be  disturbed  then  the  slumbering  volcanic 
fires  in  the  mighty  Tres  Virgenes  will  awaken  and  over- 
whelm San  Ignacio  with  lava.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  volcano 
did  not  give  a  few  threatening  rumbles  a  short  time  since, 
for  by  so  doing  it  might  have  saved  the  altar  from  being 
pillaged,  under  the  cloak  of  legal  authority,  of  many  of  its 
precious  gold  and  silver  ornaments.  The  long  knives  of 
the  natives,  however,  will  doubtless  protect  the  traditional 
treasure. 

It  is  part  history  and  part  tradition  that  in  early  times 
the  Padres  gathered  at  San  Ignacio  a  library  of  rare  books 
and  precious  charts.  Even  less  than  sixty  years  ago  these 
treasures  were  seen.  After  diligent  search  I  found,  in  the 
hands  of  an  old  San  Ignacio  family,  the  remains  of  this 
library:  two  poor,  lone  volumes.  Both  were  printed  in 
illuminated  type,  done  at  Rome  ^^Superiorum  Permissu/' 
one  under  date  of  1723,  the  other,  1783.  The  ancient 
leather  and  wood  bindings,  the  broken  iron  clasps  and  the 
quaint  print  of  these  relics  would  cause  any  normal  anti- 
quary to  thrill  with  covetousness.  Church  ceremonials,  Holy 
Days  and  other  religious  matters  were  the  subjects  consid- 
ered in  these  books.  Near  Santa  Gertrudis  I  had  found 
others  not  unlike  them,  but  with  this  greater  interest:  the 
illustrations  had  been  designed  to  appeal  to  the  natives,  the 
Roman  Centurions,  for  instance,  being  mounted  on  mules 
accoutered  with  the  shoulder  and  crupper  straps  in  use  on 
the  steep  caminos  of  the  Peninsula. 

The  Mission  of  San  Ignacio  is  remarkably  well  pre- 
served. In  outward  appearance  It  is  so  like  the  Franciscan 
Mission  of  San  Luis  Rey  in  the  State  of  California  that  I 
rather  expect  the  latter  must  have  been  designed  from  it. 
The  church,  the  usual  ell  and  the  wall  surrounding  the  patio 


SAN  IGNACIO,  THE  FAVORED 


171 


Stand  practically  untouched  by  time.  At  all  hours  of  the 
day  veiled  Senoras  and  smiling  girls  enter  the  wide  portals 
of  the  church  to  kneel  in  prayer  before  its  ancient  altar. 
The  Post  Office  and  the  village  school — with  soft  voiced 
urchins  repeating  aloud  their  lessons — are  located  in  the 
commodious  ell,  while  an  elderly,  rotund  and  jovial  maker 
of  leather,  father  of  a  sloe-eyed  Sefiorita,  inhabits  still  an- 
other portion  of  the  priest-forsaken  quarters.  All  the 
buildings  are  of  cut  stone.  Approaching  the  church,  which 
opens  upon  the  usual  plaza,  one  climbs  two  flights  of  steps 
before  entering  the  lofty  arched  doorway  with  its  massive 
hard-wood  double  doors.  The  walls  are  four  feet  in  thick- 
ness. The  interior,  though  but  seven  paces  in  width,  floor 
measurement,  is  even  of  greater  length  than  the  church  at 
San  Borja,  while  the  extreme  height,  under  a  superb  dome, 
must  be  over  twenty  metres.  Above  the  altar  there  are  a 
number  of  magnificent  oil  paintings  done  by  Italian  brushes 
in  the  eighteenth  century,  while  below  and  to  the  right  and 
left  are  extensive  alcoves,  each  with  its  individual  shrine. 
Finally,  the  floor  of  the  church  is  composed  of  hewn  stone 
cubes,  set  closely  together. 

As  the  junction  of  numerous  caminos  which  lead  away  to 
the  north,  south  and  east,  San  Ignacio  even  now  is  an  im- 
portant pueblo.  Three  of  these  trails  connect  with  the  Gulf 
port  of  Santa  Rosalia,  twenty  leagues  to  the  northeast. 
This  was  my  next  objective.  Accordingly,  selecting  the 
most  favored  of  the  three  trails,  I  set  forth  early  the  third 
morning  after  my  arrival  at  San  Ignacio.  Anxiety  for  home 
news  and  the  recollection  of  a  promise  given  the  proprietor 
of  the  mines  at  Los  Flores,  relative  to  the  delivery  of  a 
certain  letter  to  his  factor  at  Santa  Rosalia,  urged  me  for- 
ward; otherwise,  I  would  have  rested  longer,  for  my  cara- 
van still  suffered  from  the  effects  of  our  experience  on  the 
Plains  of  Ojo  Llebre. 


172      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

In  fact,  my  old  mozo  Castro  was  so  feeble  and  unfit  for 
travel  that  I  left  him  in  the  care  of  his  friends  at  San 
Ignacio.  His  parting  message  was  a  prayerful  request  that 
if  death  came,  ^Vould  the  patron  take  the  compass  and  fix 
the  direction  for  my  soul  to  reach  Paradise?''  Once  on  the 
road  my  poor  Coronado,  unable  to  continue  his  former 
vigorous  gait,  was  compelled  to  see  his  place  and  leader's 
bell  given  to  the  younger  and  more  recuperative  Cabrillo. 
It  was  affecting  to  observe  the  evident  humiliation  with 
which  the  plucky  burro  accepted  the  change.  Such  were 
some  of  the  effects  of  our  struggle  against  thirst,  an  ever 
impending  danger  for  those  who  wander  In  the  fastnesses 
of  Lower  California.  Now,  however,  we  were  to  see  the 
more  settled  portions  of  the  Peninsula, 


CHAPTER  XIV 


SANTA  ROSALIA^  A  FRENCH  MUNICIPALITY  IN  MEXICO 

i    LTHOUGH  in  Washington  and  San  Francisco  I  had 


frequently  heard  mention  of  La  Paz  as  the  largest 


settlement  on  the  California  Peninsula,  concerning 
Santa  Rosalia  I  had  found  no  data  in  the  United  States 
beyond  the  bare  statement  of  some  financial  and  shipping 
men  that  it  was  a  small  port  on  the  Gulf  of  California 
where  a  wealthy  French  syndicate  was  quietly  engaged  in 
extensive  copper  mining.  As  I  proceeded  down  the  Penin- 
sula, I  began,  to  my  surprise,  however,  to  hear  Santa 
Rosalia  referred  to  as  a  French  city  and  the  largest  munici- 
pality in  Lower  California.  I  left  San  Ignacio,  therefore, 
filled  with  expectations. 

For  two  days  we  traveled  northeasterly,  passing  through 
lofty  volcanic  sierras  and  wearing  around  to  the  right  of 
three  massive  peaks,  the  Three  Virgins,  two  of  which  shyly 
hid  themselves  behind  their  sister.  These  peaks  approach 
seven  thousand  feet  in  height  and  even  in  modern  times  have 
rumbled  with  volcanic  life.  During  a  portion  of  this  journey 
we  rode  along  a  broad  and  ancient  highway,  bordered  with 
stones  and  dating  into  prehistoric  times.  Late  in  the  after- 
noon of  the  second  day  we  entered  a  long  valley  in  which 
we  found  habitations  and  small  plots  of  garden  land. 
Finally  we  came  upon  quite  a  settlement  called  Sant' 
Agueda  and  first  developed  in  the  days  of  the  Padres. 
Here  and  there  were  palms  and  orange  trees,  a  watercourse 
and  a  number  of  frame  houses,  at  the  farthest  of  which  we 


173 


174     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

stopped  for  the  night.  Our  host  and  hostess  were  a  French 
couple,  Monsieur  and  Madame  Rosand.  From  them  I 
gathered  that  the  residents  of  Sant'  Agueda  were  engaged 
in  raising  **garden  truck,"  which  they  marketed  at  Santa 
Rosalia,  two  leagues  distant.  Madame  Rosand  was  an 
industrious  little  woman  of  twenty-eight,  possessed  of  such 
a  wealth  of  maternal  love  that  she  generously  cared  for  a 
small  orphan  in  addition  to  her  own  sturdy  brood  of  six. 
Remembering  her  good  deeds  I  bow  to  Madame  Rosand, 
a  brave  little  woman,  and  such  a  culinary  artist  I  So  pleased 
was  I  with  this  kindly  couple  that  I  arranged  to  leave  Jesus 
with  them  while  I  pushed  on  to  the  Gulf. 

I  was  in  the  saddle  early  the  morning  after  my  arrival 
at  Sant'  Agueda.  The  trail  immediately  broadened  out  into 
an  excellent  road,  marked  by  a  line  of  telephone  poles.  Soon 
I  passed  a  succession  of  gaping  mining  shafts  and  then  ar- 
rived at  a  small  railroad  station  protected  by  a  series  of 
frame  residence  barracks.  This  was  El  Providencia,  one 
of  the  three  great  copper  mines  of  the  Santa  Rosalia  group. 
Between  San  Ignacio  and  Sant'  Agueda  I  had  seen  thickets 
which,  though  they  were  composed  of  small  varieties  of 
trees  such  as  the  palo  bianco,  were  more  extensive  and  nu- 
merous than  any  I  had  observed  since  leaving  the  region  of 
thick  mesquit  near  the  29th  parallel,  north  latitude.  Now, 
however,  I  had  arrived  in  an  absolutely  barren  country, 
devoid  of  any  trees  or  shrubs. 

The  station  rests  In  a  narrow  arroyo  which  gradually 
widened  out  as  I  rode  forward.  Twenty  minutes  burro 
travel  brought  me  past  a  long  shed — a  public  laundry,  evi- 
dently, judging  from  the  washtubs  and  hydrants  under  its 
shelter — into  a  town  with  side-walks,  well-kept  streets, 
frame  houses  and  ^'Rurales^^  or  mounted  police.  This  was 
Santa  Rosalia,  the  most  modern  and  largest  town  in  Lower 
California.   At  the  foot  of  the  street  before  me  I  could  see 


A  FRENCH  MUNICIPALITY  IN  MEXICO  175 


a  harbor  and  many  ships ;  on  the  bluffs  to  the  right  and  left 
of  the  town  there  were  residences,  while  high  above  those  at 
the  left  rose  the  mighty  smoke-stacks  of  the  smelter.  After 
the  rare  interest  of  quaint  San  Ignacio  my  first  impression 
of  this  new,  mathematically  laid  out  town  was  far  from 
agreeable.  The  salt  air  from  the  harbor,  however,  was  wel- 
come. Eyeing  my  surroundings  with  curiosity  and  surprise 
I  rode  slowly  down  the  main  street,  guided  by  the  first  ur- 
chin I  observed,  and  crossing  a  plaza  dismounted  before  the 
Correo,  which  I  found  just  beyond. 

Here  I  submitted  identifying  credentials  to  the  Post- 
master and  asked  for  mail.  The  official  carefully  examined 
my  documents,  then  smiling  in  a  friendly  manner  delivered 
to  me  a  packet  of  letters.  These  contained  my  first  home 
news  in  over  three  months !  With  nervous  fingers  I  opened 
the  letter  with  the  oldest  postmark,  then  the  one  with  the 
most  recent.  They  contained  no  bad  news.  The  official 
seemed  to  read  the  evident  relief  in  my  face  for  he  smiled 
again  and  offered  to  conduct  me  to  the  neighboring  office 
of  the  principal  Mexican  shipping  merchant,  Senor  Rudolfo 
Garyzar,  for  whom  I  had  made  inquiry,  as  he  was  the 
factor  of  my  mining  friend  at  Los  Flores. 

Senor  Garyzar  proved  to  be  a  middle-aged  Spanish- 
Mexican  gentleman.  Though  he  spoke  little  English  he 
had  full  command  of  the  pure  Castilian.  After  accepting 
the  letter  which  I  delivered  to  him  and  thanking  me  cour- 
teously, he  introduced  me  to  the  Mayor  of  Santa  Rosalia, 
one  Senor  Bouchet.  After  greeting  me  in  English,  this  gen- 
tleman proceeded  to  read,  with  every  care,  the  credentials 
which  I  presented  to  him.  Meantime  I  noted  his  appear- 
ance. Like  Senor  Garyzar  he  was  dressed  in  clothes  of 
American  cut.  I  quickly  decided  that  he  was  medium  In 
every  respect:  age,  height,  weight,  even  nationality,  for  his 
dark  pointed  beard  was  more  French  than  Mexican.  Later, 


176     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


I  found  that  he  was  part  French — and  all  courtesy  and  hos- 
pitality. His  reading  concluded,  the  Mayor  invited  me  to 
his  place  of  business,  a  general  store  facing  the  plaza. 
Office  and  sales-room  opened  upon  the  street,  while  at  the 
rear  there  were  store-rooms  and  a  kitchen.  After  directing 
me  to  deposit  my  saddle-bags  in  the  office,  Senor  Bouchet  led 
the  way  up  a  flight  of  stairs  to  a  suite  of  rooms  where  he 
resided.  Later  I  found  that  all  of  the  merchants  lived  thus 
in  touch  with  their  stores.  As  soon  as  he  had  apologized 
for  appearances,  explaining  that  his  family  was  absent  on 
a  visit  to  Los  Angeles,  the  Senor  placed  one  of  his  rooms 
at  my  disposal.  The  extent  of  his  hospitality  dawning  upon 
me,  I  protested  that  there  was  a  hotel  on  the  plaza  and  that 
I  could  not  impose  on  his  good  nature.  Protestations,  how- 
ever, were  waved  aside  and  I  became  a  guest,  a  particularly 
agreeable  position,  as  my  host  proved  to  be  widely  informed 
and  a  well  read  gentleman,  at  home  in  the  English,  French, 
German  and  Spanish  languages. 

After  luncheon  I  enjoyed  a  short  visit  with  the  two 
Italian  priests  who  were  in  charge  of  the  parish  and  then 
passing  through  a  gateway  in  a  large  enclosure,  ascended  a 
broad  highway  leading  to  the  French  quarters  on  the  north- 
ern bluff,  immediately  overlooking  the  lower  town.  Anxious 
to  obtain  data  for  historic  work,  I  directed  my  steps  toward 
the  office  building  of  El  Boleo,  the  French  copper  mining 
company,  and  sent  in  my  card.  After  a  short  delay  I  was 
ushered  through  a  hall-way  and  a  succession  of  rooms  into 
an  inner  office,  where  the  clerk  left  me  in  the  presence  of  a 
keen  eyed  French  official,  whom  I  soon  found  to  be  a  pol- 
ished and  educated  gentleman,  well  qualified  to  relieve  a 
stranger  of  embarassment.  The  purpose  of  my  call  briefly 
explained,  I  retired  from  the  offices  of  the  notedly  uncom- 
municative officials  of  El  Boleo,  with  an  assurance  that  my 
request  would  be  given  consideration.    Twenty-four  hours 


A  FRENCH  MUNICIPALITY  IN  MEXICO  177 


later  there  was  delivered  to  me  a  concise  report  in  crisp 
English,  setting  forth  all  the  data  which  I  desired. 

On  my  return  to  the  lower  town  I  met  on  the  plaza  an 
American,  a  traveling  dentist,  who  seemed  nearly  as  glad 
to  meet  me  as  I  was  to  see  him.  He  explained  that  al- 
though there  were  a  few  Germans,  a  couple  of  hundred 
French  and  seven  thousand  Mexicans,  Japanese  and  Yaquis 
in  Santa  Rosalia,  we  were  the  only  Anglo-Saxons.  In  the 
usual  unusual  happening  of  coincidences  it  developed  that 
my  countryman  and  I  had  been  born  in  adjoining  counties. 
I  entered  his  office,  which  of  course  faced  the  plaza — in 
Mexico  everybody  seeks  the  plaza — and  we  were  soon  deep 
in  the  novel  exercise  of  speaking  English.  Presently  we 
heard  childish  voices  in  the  adjoining  yard  singing  in  chorus, 

^^Cuan-  do  sa-  li  de  la  Ha-ha-na  vaUga  me  Dios! 
^'Na-die  me  ha  vis-to  sa-lir  si  no  fui  yo 
^^Yu-na  lin-da  Guachi-nanga  sa4la  voy  yo 
**Que  se  vi  no  tras  de  mi  que  si  se-nor 
*^Si  a  tu  ven-ta-na  lle-ga  thna  Pa-lo-ma/^ 

Through  the  open  doorway  I  could  see  the  singers,  a  group 
of  small  girls,  hands  clasped  and  moving  from  right  to  left 
in  time  with  the  music.  My  companion's  face  had  clouded, 
and  abruptly  excusing  himself,  he  rushed  out  and  quieted 
the  children. 

'^What's  up?"  I  inquired  on  his  return,  **the  youngsters 
were  merely  singing  ^^La  Paloma'^  (The  Dove),  which,  by 
the  way,  IVe  heard  the  muchachitas  singing  all  the  way 
down  from  our  Border.  The  air  and  soft  syllables  are  de- 
cidedly pretty." 

can't  abide  that  song,"  replied  the  dentist,  testily. 
Recalling  the  pathos  of  the  verses  and  that  many  Americans 
in  Mexico  have  painful  home  memories,  I  jumped  at  my 
own  conclusions  and  was  silent.  *^Come,"  exclaimed  my 
companion,  changing  the  subject,  *1et's  find  the  good  mayor 


178     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


and  Indulge  in  a  chat  over  there  on  the  hotel  veranda." 

Again  crossing  the  plaza,  we  found  Senor  Bouchet  and 
were  soon  seated  around  a  small  table  before  the  hotel.  A 
passerby,  the  captain  of  a  German  vessel  at  anchor  in  the 
harbor,  made  a  fourth  to  our  party.  Glasses  were  promptly 
filled. 

**Herr  Cap,"  I  remarked,  **you  have  sailed  these  waters 
for  years,  what  do  you  think  of  Mexico?" 

'^Mexico!  Ah,  the  Senoritas  are  sehr  schon — but  always 
chaperoned,  always,  always."  He  shook  his  grizzled  head 
mournfully  and  then  inquired  of  me : 

**How  do  you  get  on  with  the  UnguaT^ 

I  hesitated  a  moment.  **Do  you  recall  as  a  child  hop- 
ping from  stone  to  stone  in  crossing  a  stream — "  ^^Ja,  ja,^' 
he  interrupted,  chuckling  reminiscently.  'Well,  that's  the 
way  I  hahla  Espagnol.  Of  nouns,  adjectives,  swear-w')rds 
and  adverbs  I  have  a  liberal  supply,  but  as  for  the  verb — 
Well,  I  hop  over  verbs.  When  I  slip  among  them  there's 
the  deuce  of  a  splash  and  I  flounder  shamefully." 

The  dentist  nodded  encouragingly.  **Don't  be  disheart- 
ened, said  he,  "remember  that  even  though  your  Spanish 
grammar  be  weak  you  have  always  your  hands  and  shoul- 
ders. Which  reminds  me.  The  other  day  I  heard  a  Mexi- 
can, in  complimenting  an  American  amigo^s  Spanish,  say, 
'Why,  he  could  hahla  though  his  hands  were  tied.'  " 

"Where  is  the  flavor  of  a  conversation  devoid  of  shrugs 
and  gesticulations?"  queried  Senor  Bouchet,  in  quick  re- 
joinder. Then,  leaving  the  subject  instantly,  for  the  rest  of 
us  were  smiling  appreciation  of  the  yarn,  he  continued,  with 
eyes  twinkling  merrily,  "I,  too,  have  a  little  story.  Last 
week  I  saw  an  American  tabulating  English  equivalents  for 
Mexican  words.  Consider  my  feelings  when  I  observed 
that  he  had  our  now  set  opposite  your  tomorrow  and  our 
tomorrow  made  an  equivalent  of  your  never,'^ 


A  FRENCH  MUNICIPALITY  IN  MEXICO  179 


This  sally  was  thoroughly  appreciated,  for  every  man  of 
us  had  suffered  from  Mexican  procrastination.  On  regular 
polyglot  tongues  conversation  sped  forward. 

The  ensuing  day  I  boarded  a  steamer  for  Guaymas. 
After  spending  nearly  a  fortnight  in  Sonora,  I  was  again  in 
Santa  Rosalia,  however,  once  more  the  guest  of  the  hospit- 
able Mayor.  For  four  interesting  days  I  remained  under 
his  roof.  In  odd  moments  he  would  pore  over  my  books 
on  ancient  California  history,  pointing  out  in  return  modern 
characteristics  of  his  people.  In  common  with  all  in  touch 
with  Mexican  affairs  he  was  an  ardent  admirer  of  President 
Diaz. 

*'The  General  has  given  stability  to  our  finances,"  the 
Senor  remarked  one  day,  '*he  has  invited  capital  to  develop 
our  resources,  he  has  enforced  our  laws.  The  next  step, 
and  the  one  toward  which  every  patriotic  Mexican  must 
do  his  part,  is  to  teach  thrift  to  our  lower  classes.  Have 
you  noticed  these  small  packages  the  people  throng  this 
store  to  buy?" 

I  nodded  affirmatively. 

**Well,  those  are  one  cent  packages  of  beans,  panoche, 
coffee,  cheese,  etc.  On  pay-day  these  people  splurge;  at 
other  times  they  purchase  necessaries  in  minimum  lots, 
which,  while  giving  the  merchant  a  substantial  retail  profit, 
is  a  heavy  drain  on  the  purchaser.  Such  a  habit  merely 
typifies  the  lack  of  thrift  which  I  deplore." 

Through  the  days  Santa  Rosalia  was  supremely  quiet, 
undisturbed  save  by  the  occasional  entry  of  some  pack  train 
from  the  interior.  Twilight,  however,  released  the  men 
from  labor  and  brought  forth  bevies  of  feminine  shoppers* 
Until  ten  o'clock  the  streets  were  thronged  and  in  the  store 
my  host  and  his  clerks  were  rushed  with  work. 

The  Senor  introduced  me  to  one  of  his  customers,  the 
daughter  of  his  friend,  Senor  Garyzar.    An  extremely 


i8o     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


pretty  senorita  and  a  charming  member  of  the  Mexican 
Primera  Clase,  or  high  social  class,  she  spoke  English 
fluently.  Though  we  found  much  in  common  to  discuss, 
she  was  promptly  whisked  away  by  her  inexorable  duenna 
the  instant  shopping  was  concluded.    Later  I  met  her  two 

particular  friends,  one  of  whom,  Senorita  Cuca  P  , 

spoke  English,  French  and  German  in  addition  to  Castilian, 
quite  essential  accomplishments,  according  to  the  teasing 
Mayor,  because  of  her  American,  English,  French,  German 
and  Spanish  admirers.  Furthermore,  she  was  a  fearless 
horsewoman;  and  in  Lower  California,  at  least,  Mexican 
girls  rarely  share  their  brothers'  expertness  in  the  saddle. 

One  day,  while  enjoying  a  stroll  on  the  southern  bluff 
where  the  officers  of  the  Port  and  other  Federal  officials 
resided,  I  met  two  young  senoritas  as  attractive  as  the  trio 
whose  acquaintance  I  had  made  through  Seiior  Bouchet.  As 
my  dentist  friend  who  was  with  me  had  been  formally  pre- 
sented to  the  young  Mexicans,  he  introduced  me  to  them 
in  due  form.  The  younger,  a  fair  girl  with  the  blue  eyes 
of  Old  Spain,  was  the  sister  of  an  official  with  a  roving 
commission.  She  had  just  arrived  with  him  at  Santa  Ro- 
salia. 

am  bad  company,  Senor,"  said  she,  "I  am  feeling 
triste.  I  miss  beautiful  Guadalajara  and  the  dear  City  of 
Mexico.  You,  too,  have  lately  arrived;  and  by  way  of  San 
Ignacio,  as  I  understand.   That  Is  a  pretty  place,  is  it  not?" 

^'Sty  Senorita/^  I  replied,  *'at  San  Ignacio  there  are  green 
palms,  beautiful  gardens,  a  stream  of  water,  an  old  mission 
and  an  atmosphere  of  the  medieval." 

The  girl  sighed.  "Ah  me,  how  I  wish  I  were  In  San 
Ignacio."  She  glanced  at  me,  wistfully.  *What  Is  there 
here?  Tell  me,  American,  what  can  you,  a  stranger,  see 
before  us?" 

She  waved  a  hand  gracefully  toward  the  town.    I  an- 


A  FRENCH  MUNICIPALITY  IN  MEXICO  l8i 


swered  slowly,  ''I  see  a  deep  sea  harbor,  protected  by  a 
stone  jetty  out  on  which  a  train  is  carrying  carloads  of 
broken  stone.  The  Customs  buildings  are  near  the  water 
and  from  them  wharves  jut  out  into  the  harbor.  An  arroyo 
debouches  at  the  water's  edge,  immediately  below  us,  form- 
ing the  town  site.  The  width  of  this  arroyo  may  be  three 
hundred  metres;  at  the  upper  end  of  the  town  it  is  even 
more  narrow.  I  see  a  plaza,  faced  by  an  hotel,  a  school 
building,  a  most  creditable  structure,  and  several  stores." 

As  I  paused  in  my  cataloguing,  the  girl  exclaimed,  impul- 
sively, *^Oh,  you  are  as  precise  as  my  brother.  Let  me  con- 
clude :  The  whole  lower  town  is  mathematical — and,  there- 
fore, horrid.  Those  fussy  French  engineers  laid  i't  out, 
doubtless,  with  a  metre  rule  and  a  surveyor's  chain.  The 
school  house  is  the  only  painted  building  below  us.  There 
is  a  complete  system  of  electric  lighting — and  no  balconies, 
anywhere.  There  is  a  theater  where  at  times  plays  are 
given,  tiresome  ones.  Annually  there  is  a  delightful  ball — 
dressy,  en  masque  and  well  arranged  by  the  French  officials, 
who,  for  the  evening,  are  charming." 

She  paused,  breathless,  and  I  ventured,  **In  Its  appear- 
ance the  town  does  rather  resemble  a  combination  of  a  de- 
serted Arizona  mining  camp  and  a  frontier  military  post. 
Cold,  barrack-like  " 

**Yes,  a  thousand  times  yes.  And  unhomelike — un-MexI- 
can.  No  shaded  promenades,  no  historic  mission  cathedral, 
not  even  a  patio  with  its  garden  retirement.  The  engineers 
have  banked  the  arroyo  and  not  planted  a  single  palm.  Yet 
the  French  are  supposed  to  be  creators  of  the  beautiful 
only;  their  Paris  Is  almost  as  delightful  as  Madrid.  Oh, 
how  I  wish  I  were  back  in  Guadalajara !"  She  turned  away 
quickly,  her  voice  breaking. 

Accepting  our  dismissal,  my  companion  and  I  sauntered 
on  down  toward  the  lower  town.    *Toor  children!    It  must 


1 82      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


be  frightfully  dull  here  for  them,"  he  remarked,  sympa- 
thetically. 'What  is  there  to  know  concerning  Santa  Ro- 
salia, past  or  otherwise?'^  he  inquired,  suddenly,  changing 
the  subject. 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  **No  traditions,  a  brief  his- 
tory, a  busy  present  and  doubtless  a  big  future."  Nor  could 
I  sum  up  the  situation  more  accurately  now.  Thirty  years 
ago  there  was  a  rancho  and  some  slight  surface  mining  done 
at  Santa  Rosalia.  A  German  company  was  in  control.  A 
decade  later  a  powerful  French  syndicate  bought  out  the 
Germans.  Favored  by  liberal  governmental  concessions, 
the  syndicate  made  substantial  improvements,  enlarged 
their  holdings  to  a  million  and  a  half  acres,  made  a  superb 
harbor  and  their  copper  mines  are  now  credited  as  being 
among  the  world's  greatest  producers.  But  these  facts  are 
not  advertised  to  the  public.  The  office  of  the  syndicate  is 
in  Paris. 

The  following  morning,  the  second  after  my  return  from 
Guaymas,  I  accompanied  my  host  to  a  session  of  the  Mu- 
nicipal Court,  which  convened  daily  in  a  small  frame  struc- 
ture situated  on  the  high  bluff  at  the  north  of  the  lower 
town.  The  proceedings  proved  decidedly  interesting.  One 
by  one  the  offenders  of  the  preceding  twenty-four  hours  were 
ushered  In  by  the  Assistant  Chief  of  Police,  a  good  looking, 
athletic  chap,  In  white  sweater,  belted  trousers,  tan  shoes 
and  the  regulation  peaked  white  straw  sombrero  of  the 
southern  Rurales.  Standing  at  attention,  this  official  would 
salute  the  Mayor,  then  twirl  his  cane  and  twist  his  mus- 
tachlos  while  his  chief,  a  middle  aged  Mexican  of  serious 
mien  and  white  linen  garb,  would  state  the  particulars  of 
the  offense.  The  well-groomed  Mayor,  seated  behind  a 
desk,  would  peer  through  his  gold  rimmed  glasses  at  the 
prisoner  and  Inquire  why  he  had  broken  the  laws.  The 
accused,  for  the  most  part,  were  ragged  and  extremely  dark 


A  FRENCH  MUNICIPALITY  IN  MEXICO  183 


of  complexion;  they  would  enter  noiselessly,  shod,  as  they 
were,  with  guarachas  or  teguas,  and  in  soft,  persuasive 
voices  reply  to  the  questionings,  each  making  his  own  de- 
fense. No  oaths  were  administered.  The  usual  sentence, 
the  offenses  being  misdemeanors,  was  two  dollars  or  two 
days.  Sentences  were  accepted  in  a  most  extraordinary 
manner.  Thus,  in  one  case,  the  complaining  witness  paid 
the  fine;  in  another,  a  widow,  fined  a  dollar  for  failing  to 
send  her  eight-year-old  to  school,  found  herself  released 
from  prison,  the  Court  advancing  the  peso;  in  a  third  in- 
stance, a  father,  whose  son  had  been  imprisoned,  entered 
the  room,  openly  thanking  the  Mayor  for  the  sentence  im- 
posed. Indeed,  not  even  the  magistrate  of  a  Juvenile  Court 
could  have  shown  a  greater  paternal  interest  in  his  charges 
than  did  this  big-hearted  Senor  with  his  child-like 
people. 

Later  I  learned  that  His  Honor  was  not  only  a  Solomon 
but  a  veritable  Haroun  Al  Raschid  as  well;  for  that  even- 
ing I  found  him  wandering  about  the  town,  accompanied 
by  the  Assistant  Chief,  looking  after  the  peace  of  the  com- 
munity and  conversing  with  all  possible  malefactors.  This 
was  his  nightly  habit.  He  kept  in  close  touch,  moreover, 
with  his  fourteen  Rurales,  the  mounted  police  apportioned 
to  Santa  Rosalia.  Small  wonder  that  even  the  cosmopolitan 
population  of  the  mining  community,  including  in  its  num- 
bers many  Yaquis,  the  fiercest,  save  the  Seri,  of  the  Indian 
tribes  of  Mexico,  was  kept  within  bounds. 

This  Assistant  Chief  of  Police  was  a  most  obliging  man. 
The  day  after  my  return  from  Guaymas  I  engaged  through 
his  assistance  an  old  Mexican  to  assist  Jesus  In  camp  work. 
He  gave  his  name  as  Praemundl  Marron  and  stated  that, 
as  he  had  once  resided  In  San  Jose  del  Cabo,  he  would  be 
ready  to  start  southward  with  me  within  twenty-four  hours. 

But  a  new  tangle  had  arisen,  the  solution  of  which  put 


1 84     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


the  time  of  my  departure  more  than  twenty-four  hours  into 
the  future. 

On  entering  Lower  California  the  question  of  how  to 
carry  funds  on  the  long  journey  before  me  had  been  a 
puzzler.  A  bag  of  cash  and  currency  seemed  dangerous. 
Indeed,  so  recent  has  been  the  passing  of  the  Mexican  ban- 
dit that  his  reputation  still  shadows  the  camino,  and  it  is 
difficult  for  an  American  to  realize  that,  thanks  to  the  ever 
ready  Rurales,  the  traveler  is  as  safe  from  molestation  on 
the  highways  of  Mexico,  save  in  certain  remote  or  Border 
sections,  as  he  would  be  in  the  United  States.  Finally,  I 
decided  upon  drafts  and  checks  of  small  denominations  as 
the  safest  financial  supply.  Doubtless,  considering  that  I 
was  alone  with  natives  the  greater  part  of  the  time,  this 
was  the  best  solution  of  the  problem.  Now,  however,  I 
learned  that  for  the  first  five  hundred  miles  before  me  I 
would  require  more  change  than  I  had  on  hand  and  would 
pass  through  no  place  where  checks  could  be  cashed.  In- 
deed, there  was  no  bank  even  in  Santa  Rosalia  with  its 
considerable  population.  Moreover,  my  drafts  were  used 
up  and  I  did  not  care  to  presume  so  far  on  the  hospitality 
of  the  merchants  whom  I  had  met  as  to  ask  them  to  cash 
a  check  for  the  amount  I  desired.  In  this  dilemma  I  wired 
for  money.  After  four  days  of  exasperating  delays  I  re- 
ceived this  satisfying  message  from  the  obliging  operator 
of  the  wireless  office : 

**Operator  on  other  coast  say  he  have  two  messages  for 
some  one,  but  his  bread  in  oven — wife  she  away — and  might 
burn  if  he  leave  It  long.   After  lunch  he  transmit  message." 

Surely,  in  Mexico  even  the  electric  service  has  become 
impregnated  with  the  spirit  of  mahana,  of  poco  tiempo,  and 
its  ahora  is  translated  **tomorrow"  and  its  mahana  '*never." 


A  FRENCH  MUNICIPALITY  IN  MEXICO  185 

Thanking  the  kindly  local  operator,  I  strode  out  of  the 
office,  boiling  with  indignation.  My  vexation  passed  away, 
however,  as  soon  as  I  repeated  the  message  to  my  com- 
patriot, the  dentist. 

**Now  wouldn't  that  jar  you!"  he  exclaimed.  '*One  must 
become  accustomed  to  such  things,  here,  however,"  he 
added,  grimly.  ^^You  can't  measure  by  home  standards. 
For  instance,  the  commercial  and  mining  laws  of  Mexico 
are  far  ahead  of  ours;  their  criminal  laws  have  a  certainty 
of  enforcement  unknown  in  the  States;  the  courtesy  of  the 
men  is  delightful,  the  natural  modesty  of  the  women  re- 
markable: these  are  items  on  the  credit  side.  Range  on 
the  debit  side  lack  of  thrift,  procrastination,  such  puerile 

methods  of  business  as  just  experienced  by  you  .  But 

come  to  my  office.  You  are  anxious  to  journey  southward. 
I  have  seventy-five  pesos,  if  they  will  suffice  you." 

And  thus,  through  the  kindly  confidence  of  my  fellow- 
countryman,  I  was  enabled  to  start  forth  without  further 
delay.  That  evening,  therefore,  I  despatched  Praemundi 
to  Sant'  Agueda.  The  ensuing  morning  I  bade  good-bye 
to  Santa  Rosalia.  As  it  was  Good  Friday  and  all  places 
of  business  were  closed,  Sefior  Bouchet  accompanied  me  to 
El  Providencia,  where  a  fair  was  being  held.  We  had  seen 
its  beginning  the  evening  of  the  previous  day — Holy 
Thursday — when  a  group  of  fantastically  garbed  Yaqui 
Indians,  led  by  a  masked  musician  decked  out  as  a  Chief 
Devil,  had  entered  Santa  Rosalia,  disporting  themselves 
hilariously.  At  the  same  time  numerous  vendors  of  pre- 
served cacti  fruit — some  of  it  not  half  bad — and  of  sweet 
cookies  had  sprung  up  most  unexpectedly.  We  now  found 
several  groups  of  these  masked  Yaquis  dancing  frantically 
in  and  out  the  gaily  decked  booths  of  the  El  Providencia 
fair.  Their  movements  were  timed  to  strains  of  wild 
music.   They  were  muscular  men  of  stocky  build  and  some 


1 86     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


of  their  contortions  were  little  short  of  fiendish.  All  the 
Lower  California  Yaquis  are  importations  from  Sonora, 
where  they  are  continually  on  the  warpath.  In  Lower 
California  they  develop  into  excellent  miners. 

Crowds  of  Mexican  children  were  gathered  about  the 
booths,  while  a  number  of  well  dressed  and  distinguished 
appearing  Frenchmen,  mounted  on  horseback,  were  watch- 
ing the  performances  of  the  Indians.  The  eagle-eyed 
Rurales  were  also  in  evidence,  riding  quietly  in  and  out  of 
the  crowd.  As  I  was  anxious  to  return  to  my  outfit,  I  soon 
bade  the  kindly  Mayor  good-bye  and  walked  the  two 
leagues  to  Sant'  Agueda,  where  I  found  my  Mexican  boy 
and  Praemundi  awaiting  me. 

Though  my  burros  were  improved  by  their  long  rest,  I 
found  it  necessary  to  purchase  an  additional  one,  and  was 
thereby  detained  thirty-six  hours.  The  time  passed  most 
delightfully,  however,  for  Sant'  Agueda  is  not  only  the 
garden  of  Santa  Rosalia  but  the  playground  of  the  French 
officials  of  El  Boleo.  A  gay  party  of  these  mercurial 
Frenchmen  soon  swooped  down  upon  the  Rosands,  reining 
up  their  steeds  at  the  very  threshold  of  the  house.  There 
were  over  a  dozen  in  the  party,  young  and  middle  aged, 
including  the  wives  of  two  of  the  older  men.  Madame 
Rosand  immediately  began  the  preparation  of  a  sumptuous 
dinner  to  which  I  was  invited. 

Two  of  the  party  were  on  the  eve  of  departure  for 
France;  one,  a  mere  boy,  was  to  enter  the  army;  the  other, 
after  fourteen  years'  service  with  El  Boleo,  was  about  to 
retire,  and,  in  company  with  his  wife,  enjoy  a  prolonged 
hunting  expedition  in  Algiers;  he  examined  my  carbine  with 
great  interest,  questioned  me  concerning  calibers,  and  fairly 
bubbled  over  with  enthusiasm  over  the  Hons  he  expected  to 
shoot  and  the  boars  he  would  spear. 

At  seven  in  the  evening  we  sat  down  to  a  long,  rough 


o 

CD 


CD 

c 


A  FRENCH  MUNICIPALITY  IN  MEXICO  187 


board  table,  placed  under  an  arbor  in  the  open  air.   At  one 
the  following  morning  I  escaped  to  my  blankets,  though  my 
companions  were  still  enjoying  themselves.    A  better  spir- 
ited company  could  not  be  imagined.    The  repast  was 
delightful  and  all  were  hungry,  for  few  of  them  were  good 
horsemen  and  their  ride  had  given  the  men  effective  appe- 
tite.  There  was  an  abundance  of  red  wine.   We  drank  the 
healths  of  the  ladies;  we  drank  that  of  the  men  who  were 
about  to  depart.    I  was  toasted,  and  on  my  proposing, 
"The  Three  Republics:  France,  Mexico  and  the  United 
States:  May  they  always  progress  in  harmony,"  my  hosts, 
not  to  be  outdone,  rose  cheering,  and  sang  in  French  and 
English  the  opening  verse  of  "The  Star  Spangled  Banner." 
At  my  right  hand  sat  a  M.  Cailliatte,  who  kindly  translated 
for  me;  at  my  left  a  musical  chap  from  the  south  of  France. 
All  the  party  possessed  good  voices  and  their  universal 
courtesy  was  charming.   At  my  request  my  left  hand  neigh- 
bor scribbled  down  a  verse  from  a  little  chanson  of  southern 
France,  which  he  sang  to  every  one's  delight,  though  he 
persisted  in  explaining  that  it  was  a  mere  recollection  from 
his  boyhood  days  near  the  Pyrenees.    Here  it  is : 

^'Et  celui  qui  le  fait 

est  de  son  village 
**0  madame  voila  de  hon  frontage 
''Voila  du  bon  frontage  au  lait 

est  du  pays  de  celui  qui  la  faitJ' 

Saturday  morning  we  had  breakfast  together,  after  which 
the  Frenchmen  hunted  doves  and  rabbits,  while  I  searched 
for  a  burro.  As  we  were  assembling  at  luncheon,  a  new 
Frenchman  rode  up  for  a  brief  visit.  One  of  the  physicians 
of  the  Company,  he  was  deeply  interested  in  a  new  serum, 
calculated  to  overcome  the  rattle-snake's  venom.  Luncheon 
concluded,  the  majority  of  those  assembled  departed,  many 


1 88      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


of  them,  to  the  great  dissatisfaction  of  their  steeds,  riding 
double. 

Later  I  enjoyed  supper  with  those  who  remained,  and 
then,  mounting  my  riding  burro,  rode  out  into  the  starlight 
at  the  head  of  my  small  cavalcade,  southward  bound  along 
El  Camino  Real  for  the  distant  pueblo  of  Loreto,  the  an- 
cient capital  of  the  Californias.  Turning  in  my  saddle,  I 
saw  the  flickering  candles  on  the  rough  table  and  heard 
the  kindly  French  voices  calling  after  me,  '^Bon  voyage, 
Monsieur.    Bon  voyaged 


CHAPTER  XV 


TO  LORETOl 

FROM  Santa  Rosalia,  via  the  Purisima  camino,  Loreto 
lies  distant  sixty-seven  leagues,  or  slightly  over  two 
hundred  miles.  The  natives,  however,  reckon  this 
distance  at  one  hundred  leagues,  attaining  their  figures  by 
adding  the  hours  consumed  in  journeying  between  the  inter- 
mediary places  and  allowing  two  leagues  to  the  hour  of 
mule  travel.  But  over  the  rocky  sierra  caminos  of  Lower 
California  even  four  miles  per  hour  is  a  high  average  gait 
for  a  mule  train.  Traveling  with  burros  I  made  the  dis- 
tance, and  several  leagues  extra,  in  fifteen  days.  Had  I 
the  time  and  opportunity  I  would  gladly  spend  fifty  days 
in  going  over  the  same  ground! 

Two  months  earlier  I  had  revelled  in  the  popples  and 
the  other  California  wild  flowers  of  La  Frontera.  Now, 
day  by  day,  a  riotous  wealth  of  deep  colors  burst  forth  from 
the  myriad  varieties  of  cacti,  glorifying  the  flower  petals 
of  the  swelling  buds,  while  the  sober  mesquit  and  verdant 
palo  verde  suddenly  decked  themselves  In  golden  hues.  Of 
soft  pink,  yellow,  deep  red  or  still  deeper  green,  a  hundred 
chalices  caught  the  eye,  whenever  I  looked  aside  from  the 
camino,  until  my  heart  softened  even  toward  the  vicious 
choUa  which  constantly  opposes  the  traveler  with  Its 
needles  and  strews  its  bristling  sections  In  his  way.  With 
its  rosaries  of  lovely  blossoms,  even  this  hated  cactus  could 
momentarily  banish  memory  of  its  evil  fame  and  exact 
homage  from  the  vision. 

189 


190      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

In  the  thirsty  wastes  between  Santa  Gertrudis,  Oje  Liebre 
and  San  Ignacio  there  had  been  a  dearth  of  birds,  but  as 
we  rode  southward  toward  Loreto,  gallant  cock  quails 
called  out  challengingly,  and  from  the  occasional  thickets 
beautiful  red  cardinals  piped  forth  with  gentle  tenderness, 
**Sweet,  sweet — ah,  dear,  dear;  sweet,  sweet — ah,  dear, 
dear,"  a  tender  refrain  most  unexpected  in  the  wilderness. 
Nightingales,  too,  sang  bravely,  while  doves  flaunted  forth 
their  amorous  notes,  forgetting  for  the  time  their  weird 
call.  Morning  after  morning,  out  from  the  fading  gray 
of  the  earliest  light,  the  mountains  would  assume  form,  bold 
and  dark  against  the  clear  sky,  their  outlines  hewn  and 
carved  in  stern  sculptury.  Then,  stirring  the  trembling 
silence  of  the  blushing  morn  with  tuneful  melody,  doves, 
quail  and  cardinals  would  burst  forth  in  triumphant  chorus 
hailing  the  majestic  and  ever-wondrous  coming  of  the  day. 
As  the  east  reddened  and  the  chorus  grew  in  fervor,  a 
gentle  breath  of  air  would  sweep  across  the  land,  a  mellow 
radiance  soften  the  rugged  western  heights  and,  welcomed 
by  his  songsters,  the  God  of  Day  would  spring  forth  in  the 
east. 

Surely,  though  in  an  age  when  the  world  itself  was  young, 
the  noble  lines  of  the  Vedic  Hymn  to  the  Dawn  must  have 
been  composed  amid  such  surroundings  as  these. 

*****    Thou  art  the  breath  and  life 
Of  all  that  breathes  and  lives,  awaking  day  by  day 
Myriads  of  prostrate  sleepers,  as  from  death, 
Causing  the  birds  to  flutter  from  their  nests. 
And  rousing  men  to  ply  with  busy  feet 
Their  daily  duties  and  appropriate  tasks." 

The  doves  were  unlike  those  to  be  seen  in  the  State  of 
California.  Like  the  cardinals,  I  had  first  observed  them  in 
the  rugged  Waist  of  the  Peninsula,  opposite  Tiburon  Is- 


TO  I.ORETO 


191 


land.  There,  late  one  afternoon,  as  I  traveled  down  a 
wild  gorge,  an  eerie  call  of  three  notes  unexpectedly  rang 
out  with  nerve-rending  sharpness.  Dismounting  instantly, 
carbine  in  hand,  I  had  peered  anxiously  ahead,  and  upon  spy- 
ing the  offender,  had  called  upon  Jesus  to  bring  it  down 
with  the  small  rifle.  The  poor  bird  had  a  bronzed  head 
and  back,  long  dark  bill,  blue  eyelids  and  dark  splash  below 
the  eyes,  a  white  line  across  the  wings  and  beneath  the  tail, 
and  bright  red  legs.  Except  for  the  distinguishing  white 
line,  the  doves  along  the  way  southward  showed  more  sub- 
dued markings  than  this  first  specimen. 

From  Sant'  Agueda  to  Loreto  we  passed  three  towns  and 
a  few  ranchos.  Throughout  this  two  hundred  miles  of 
travel  we  met  on  the  camino  but  three  wayfarers!  Of 
wild  creatures  we  saw  mountain  sheep,  coyotes,  foxes,  wild 
cats,  ducks,  quail  and  doves.  Rattlesnakes  were  frequent. 
Those  California  roadside  habitues,  the  jack  rabbits,  were 
daily  to  be  seen  ambling  sociably  about  or  considering  us 
with  long  ears  pointed  questioningly  forward.  Within 
two  leagues  out  from  Sant'  Agueda  we  were  advised  we 
were  deep  in  the  Land  of  the  Padres  by  the  sight  of  a  large 
wayside  cross  made  by  placing  boulders  upon  the  ground  in 
the  conventional  design.  This  may  have  been  a  first  notice 
arranged  in  olden  times  to  call  the  traveler's  attention  to 
his  approach  to  sacred  Loreto.  Thereafter,  ancient  cami- 
nos,  broken  aqueducts,  neglected  cisterns,  chapel  ruins  and 
enduring  stone  missions,  attesting  the  tremendous  energy 
of  the  Jesuits,  advised  us  of  our  proximity  to  the  earliest 
center  of  the  missionary  field  in  the  Californias. 

After  our  departure  from  Sant'  Agueda  I  had  a  glimpse 
of  a  survival  of  the  religious  fervor  which  animated  the 
past  generations.  Late  Easter  night  we  had  spread  our 
blankets  on  the  edge  of  a  stony  arroyo  by  the  site  of  the 
ancient  Jesuit  mission  chapel  of  Santa  Maria  de  la  Magda- 


192      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


lena.  In  the  small  hours  of  Monday  morning  I  had  seen 
several  horsemen  in  the  moonlight;  later,  as  the  sun  was 
rising,  I  heard  the  crunch,  crunch  of  many  hoofs,  and  look- 
ing down  the  arroyo,  saw  a  cavalcade  drawing  near,  gor- 
geously garbed — men,  women  and  children  mounted  on 
richly  caparisoned  horses  and  mules.  They  had  been  at- 
tending mid-day  and  evening  Easter  services  at  Mulege, 
some  five  and  a  half  leagues  distant,  and  in  their  anxiety  to 
reach  their  distant  ranchos  had  taken  the  camino  long  be- 
fore daylight.  To  be  present  at  these  services,  they  gladly 
rode  from  fifty  to  one  hundred  miles ! 

I  had  had  some  difficulty  in  locating  these  ruins  of  Mag- 
dalena.  From  Sant'  Agueda  I  had  ridden  direct  to  Santa 
Lucia,  a  diminutive  settlement  on  the  Gulf,  and  from  there 
had  followed  the  old  Gulfo  Camino  down  the  coast  a  league 
and  a  half  to  San  Bruno,  another  equally  diminutive  settle- 
ment, where  symmetrical  salt  beds,  a  fine  orchard  of  olive 
trees  and  a  dignified  white  adobe,  the  residence  of  an  Eng- 
lish hermit,  were  clustered  in  close  proximity.  Leaving 
San  Bruno  we  bore  away  slightly  west  of  south  for  over 
three  leagues,  picking  a  way  through  the  cacti  and  brush  or 
following  a  convenient  arroyo  until  we  came  upon  an 
ancient  camino  which  brought  us  out  at  a  spot  where  a  large 
arroyo  came  forth  from  the  sierras.  Here  the  remains  of 
a  substantial  and  extraordinarily  well  constructed  stone  and 
masonry  aqueduct — apparently  run  several  miles  for  the 
purpose  of  irrigating  a  very  few  acres — and  heaps  of  grass 
grown  ruins,  marked  the  site  of  early  missionary  labors. 
In  March,  1867,  Professor  Wm.  M.  Gabb,  of  the  Ross 
Brown  exploring  party,  evidently  the  only  foreign  visitors 
of  modern  times  in  this  section,  noted  these  ruins  as  the  re- 
mains of  the  Jesuit  Mission  of  Guadalupe.  Had  the 
scientist  been  a  trifle  more  conversant  with  early  Peninsula 
history  or  had  he  visited  the  neighboring  rancho  of  Magda- 


TO  LORETO 


193 


lena,  doubtless  he  would  have  avoided  this  error  and  placed 
Guadalupe  Mission  ten  leagues  to  the  west. 

This  Rancho  of  San  Jose  de  Magdalena  proved  to  be  a 
small  and  truly  delightful  oasis  with  a  field  of  grain,  a 
thicket  of  sugar-cane,  towering  palms,  enormous  fig  trees 
and  a  pool  of  clear  water.  The  proprietress  was  a  firm 
old  Senora  who  despotically  ordered  about  a  numerous 
family  of  blooming  muchachas.  So  overrun  was  the  place 
with  these  wholesome  looking  girls  and  so  lacking  was  It  in 
males  that  I  caused  the  old  dame  to  relax  her  severity  by 
renaming  her  property  the  Rancho  de  las  Muchachas, 
From  this  point  we  rode  across  the  desolate  plains  of  Mag-* 
dalena,  once  the  site  of  some  wildly  visionary  agricultural 
colony  of  American  conception,  into  the  hills.  Coming 
down  through  a  picturesque  pass,  we  arrived  at  Mulege  the 
afternoon  of  April  the  i6th. 

The  Mission  of  Santa  Rosalia  de  Mulege,  founded  by 
the  Jesuits  in  the  year  1705,  attained  during  the  eighteenth 
century  considerable  prosperity.  Of  late  years  the  stone 
church  has  been  extensively  repaired  and  is  now  in  excellent 
condition.  It  stands  upon  a  slight  eminence  above  the 
town.  Only  two  foreigners  appear  to  have  noted  their 
impressions  of  Mulege.  The  first  of  these.  Lieutenant 
Hardy  of  the  British  Navy,  anchored  in  the  ofiing  while  on 
a  little  pearl  venture  in  1828.  Though  he  was  delighted 
with  the  local  port  wine,  he  seemed  to  consider  the  village 
as  a  half  deserted  place  in  the  grip  of  a  shamefully  profli- 
gate Friar.  Thirty-nine  years  later.  Professor  Gabb,  visit- 
ing Mulege,  described  it  as  **a  straggling  village  of  adobe 
houses  with  a  population  of,  perhaps,  two  hundred  per- 
sons." To  his  surprise  he  found  a  little  coterie  of  accom- 
plished gentlemen  in  the  village,  who  made  his  stay  with 
them  most  agreeable.    As  I  entered  Mulege  I  could  but 


194     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

wonder  whether  the  intervening  thirty-nine  years  since  Pro- 
fessor Gabb's  visit  had  brought  about  many  changes. 
I  quickly  discovered  that  they  had. 

In  place  of  a  profligate  Friar  as  in  the  days  of  Hardy,  I 
found  a  scholarly,  ascetic  young  Italian  priest.  Padre  Mar- 
seliano.  His  clear  cut,  refined  features,  his  deep  interest  in 
his  people,  in  literature  and  in  photography,  won  me  in- 
stantly. So  extensive,  so  rugged  and  so  desert  is  the  field 
of  his  labors — reaching  from  the  mining  camp  of  Calama- 
juet  on  the  north  to  the  Mission  of  San  Luis  Gonzaga  on 
the  south — that  I  doubt  whether  any  soldier  of  the  Gospel 
has  in  hand  a  task  of  greater  severity.  In  place  of  a  strag- 
gling village  of  two  hundred,  I  found  Mulege  to  be  a  pros- 
perous town  of  full  eight  hundred  inhabitants,  with  adobe 
houses,  public  buildings,  narrow  shaded  streets,  a  tide-water 
stream,  numerous  irrigating  ditches,  fertile  fields  and  acres 
of  vegetables,  sugar-cane,  trellised  vines,  and  orange,  lemon, 
olive,  fig,  pomegranate  and  palm  trees. 

In  the  matter  of  the  ^'agreeable  coterie"  of  1867,  hap- 
pily I  found  the  only  change  was  that  of  new  generations. 
After  conversing  with  the  Padre,  I  visited  the  District 
Court  where  I  met  a  handsome  and  affable  young  official, 
the  Federal  Attorney  for  the  district.  Later,  on  the  plaza 
I  came  across  one  Senor  Elias  Bareno,  merchant  and  sur- 
veyor, who  introduced  me  to  his  **pupil  in  English,"  Don 
Mauricio  Mexia.  Thanks  to  Don  Mauricio,  I  enjoyed  a 
most  delightful  afternoon  drive,  for  the  genial  fellow  gath- 
ered into  his  commodious  three-seater  no  less  than  six 
Senoritas  of  the  Primera  Clase  and  laughingly  told  me  to 
squeeze  in.  To  my  pleased  surprise  one  of  the  company 
was  my  recent  acquaintance,  Senorita  Garyzar.  She  had 
come  from  Santa  Rosalia  on  a  Gulf  steamer  to  spend  Eas- 
ter with  relatives. 

We  drove  along  the  stream  for  half  a  mile,  then  crossing 


TO  LORETO 


195 


over  through  water  to  the  hubs,  entered  a  beautiful,  shaded 
driveway  leading  to  a  picturesque  sugar  plantation,  where 
we  were  given  a  great  sheaf  of  cane  stalks.  The  whole 
region  was  an  Eden-like  bower  of  green  and  flowers,  the 
property,  I  believe,  of  some  member  of  the  party.  Here 
we  alighted,  and  as  we  strolled  about  under  the  great  palms 
and  amid  the  flowers,  the  girls  began  singing  soft  Spanish 
songs,  until  I  seemed  to  be  enjoying  some  delightful 
dream. 

Foreigners  have  such  a  mistaken  fashion  of  considering 
all  Mexicans  swarthy  people  that  I  cannot  but  note  that 
there  were  only  three  brunettes  in  our  little  party:  Don 
Mauricio  and  his  baby  daughter,  who  had  joined  us  at  the 
last  moment,  had  the  bluest  of  eyes,  while  his  sister-in-law, 
a  tall,  statuesque  beauty,  was  a  decided  blonde.  Dark  eyes 
were  the  exception.  As  we  were  roaming  about  the  garden 
we  came  to  a  large  vat  where  olives  were  pickling.  The 
best  lined  the  bottom.  Desirous  of  obtaining  these,  each 
in  turn,  amid  gay  laughter,  began  reaching  down  into  the 
brine.  By  rolling  my  right  sleeve  to  the  shoulder,  I  easily 
fished  out  a  harrdful  of  fine  black  olives.  As  I  passed  the 
fruit,  one  of  the  girls,  her  gaze  falling  upon  my  bared  arm, 
exclaimed  in  uncontrollable  amazement,  *^Jesu  Christi,  dos 
color  esT' 

Having  assumed  from  my  tanned  face  and  forearms  that 
I  was  a  dark-skinned  individual,  the  muchacha  had  been 
completely  taken  aback  by  the  unexpected  whiteness  of  my 
upper  arm.  Her  confusion  was  at  once  increased  for  **Je- 
susa,  you  must  apologize  to  the  gentleman  for  your  expres- 
sion," said  pretty  Senorita  Garyzar,  in  a  reproving  aside  in 
Spanish.    '*He  will  think  you  profane." 

*Trofane!    I?"  exclaimed  the  girl,  deeply  shocked. 

''Certainly.  In  his  country  to  use  freely  the  expression 
'Jesus  Christ'  Is  to  blaspheme." 


196      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


''Blaspheme!  Victoria,  it  cannot  be  so.  It  is  but  an  ex- 
pression; it  is  my  own  name,  even.'* 

''I  know,*'  persisted  the  American  travelled  Senorita, 
''but,  although  we  use  the  term  as  a  given  name  and  as  a 
harmless  by-word,  in  the  United  States — 

Here  I  hastened  to  the  rescue  of  the  embarrassed  girl, 
but  she  was  inconsolable,  murmuring  in  blank  distress,  "I 
blaspheme — I  could  not  so  offend!'' 

Leaving  the  plantation  we  drove  down  to  the  water's 
edge  and  found  the  shade  of  a  large  palm,  where  we  stopped 
to  enjoy  the  sweet  pith  of  our  sugar-cane.  As  they  held 
the  straight,  slender,  reed-like  stalks  to  their  carmine  lips, 
the  girls  looked  quite  like  a  group  of  pretty  flute  players. 
We  were  all  in  high  spirits,  applauding  roundly  the  many 
gallant  remarks  of  Don  Mauricio.  "Ah,"  said  he,  finally, 
chucking  his  little  daughter  playfully  under  the  chin,  and 
preparing  to  cross  the  stream,  "it's  doubtless  the  eating  of 
so  much  sugar-cane  that  endows  our  Mulege  muchachas 
with  such  rare  sweetness."  As  I  was  seriously  announcing 
my  firm  belief  that  the  lasses  surely  lived  half  the  year  on 
honey,  a  bright-eyed  miss  inquired  how  many  daughters  I 
had  at  home.  Making  prompt  answer  that  I  was  a  single 
man,  I  produced,  with  mock  formality,  a  Mexican  passport 
describing  me  as  ^^un  soltero^'  (a  bachelor),  whereupon  my 
inquisitress  asked  whether  any  Americans  married.  "As- 
suredly," she  concluded,  amid  concurring  nods  from  her 
mates,  "all  that  have  ever  come  here  have  stoutly  averred 
that  they  were  bachelors." 

"I  don't  wonder,"  I  replied,  with  an  admiring  glance  at 
the  pretty  bevy.  Certainly  there  might  be  compensations 
for  being  marooned  at  Mulege. 

From  Mulege  there  are  two  caminos  to  Punsima,  one 
via  the  San  Sebastian  Arroyo,  the  other  by  way  of  Zapote 
and  the  Guadalupe  Arroyo.    As  Professor  Gabb  had  taken 


TO  LORETO 


197 


the  latter  in  1867,  I  chose  the  San  Sebastian  camino.  From 
my  own  observations  the  route  a  traveler  does  not  select, 
he  later  decides  was  necessarily  the  better.  Via  the  San 
Sebastian  camino  the  distance  is  thirty-one  leagues,  the  di- 
rection southwest. 

As  I  left  Mulege  early  the  morning  of  April  the  i8th, 
the  world  seemed  in  perfect  peace,  the  mission  bells  were 
ringing  and  there  was  no  sympathetic  sign  of  the  great 
natural  disturbance  that  was  bringing  disaster  upon  the  busy 
metropolis  of  the  State  of  California.  That  afternoon 
Coronado  began  to  fail.  The  following  morning,  before 
breakfast,  I  endeavored  to  secure  a  new  burro,  a  vaquero 
having  one  for  sale.  As  he  declined  to  execute  a  bill  of 
sale,  the  transaction  fell  through.  (Later,  I  ascertained 
that  the  man  had  no  title  to  the  burro.)  When  the  animals 
were  saddled  I  had  Coronado's  pack  transferred  to  my 
riding  burro  and  I  proceeded  on  foot;  such  relief  proved  of 
no  avail,  and  a  few  hours  later,  as  we  made  our  way  up- 
ward toward  a  four-thousand-foot  pass  in  the  sierras,  the 
poor  beast  sank  upon  the  camino,  unable  to  arise,  urge  him 
as  we  would.  Unsheathing  my  carbine,  I  regretfully 
sighted  for  his  heart,  but  as  my  eyes  rested  on  the  sturdy 
brown  shoulders,  I  remembered  how  bravely  they  had  borne 
my  possessions  for  a  thousand  miles,  I  remembered  our 
common  sufferings  on  the  Llanos  de  Ojo  Liehre — and  put 
aside  the  gun.  **Is  there  a  chance  of  his  recuperating?"  I 
asked  of  Praemundi  who  stood  by. 

''Perhaps.  He  had  water  this  morning;  there  Is  feed 
here.  Let  him  be,  and  by  to-morrow  he  will  be  dead  or  up 
after  feed  and  water.'' 

Sheathing  the  carbine,  I  approached  my  poor  dumb  ser-^ 
vant.  ^^Jdios,  Coronado,"  said  I,  feelingly,  patting  his 
bulky  head  the  while.  ''You  have  done  your  level  best  for 
me.    Jdios,^'    The  old  fellow  looked  up  with  great  weary 


198     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


eyes,  whereat  I  turned  away  with  a  lump  in  my  throat. 
^'Famunos*'  (Onward),  I  shouted  out  roughly  to  my  mozos. 
Forward  we  proceeded.  Soon  Cortez  began  to  stagger,  so 
I  had  Jesus  dismount.  The  strain  of  a  thousand  miles  of 
travel  and  of  thirst  on  the  Llanos  de  Ojo  Liebre  was  telling. 

On  the  19th  instant  and  the  two  days  succeeding  we  pro- 
ceeded on  foot,  no  unpleasant  exercise  had  it  not  been  that 
my  teguas  were  so  worn  that  sharp  stones  and  cacti  con- 
tinually wounded  my  feet.  The  third  day  of  our  walking 
we  crossed  over  into  the  Purisima  Arroyo  and  came  to  a 
rancho,  then  to  another  and  another.  In  the  afternoon  we 
made  camp  on  the  banks  of  the  Pun'sima  Rio,  a  fine,  clear 
stream,  bordered  by  willows  and  sedge  grass  and  running  in 
a  rock  channel  with  precipitous  walls  rising  close  at  either 
side  and  forming  a  magnificent  gorge  full  a  thousand  feet 
in  depth.  Tired  and  footsore  from  over  sixty  miles  of 
walking,  I  did  not  break  camp  for  thirty-six  hours,  good, 
peaceful  hours,  in  which  I  enjoyed  four  swims  in  a  deep  hole 
near  by,  let  my  blisters  heal,  philosophized  with  my  old 
mozo,  dipped  into  my  two  small  volumes  of  Balzac  and 
Kipling,  and  listened  to  the  fascinating  song  of  running 
waters,  a  song  that  carried  me  to  scenes  in  the  High  Sierras 
of  Upper  California,  then  to  my  fevered  hours  on  the 
Llanos  de  Ojo  Liebre  and,  in  prospect,  to  possible  thirsty 
experiences  to  come  on  the  deserts  before  me. 

Jesus,  for  his  part,  slipped  joyously  away  on  a  visit  to 
the  beehive  and  orange  trees  of  a  neighboring  rancho,  while 
Praemundi  spent  the  major  portion  of  his  time  laundering, 
the  pot-holes  in  the  rock  flooring  of  our  camp  serving  ad- 
mirably for  wash  tubs.  As  he  sat  near  me  patiently  await- 
ing the  drying  of  the  clothes,  the  old  Mexican  made  an  in- 
teresting study:  A  lean,  wiry  figure  of  sixty  years  or  more, 
with  long  arms  and  bowed  legs,  with  brown  hands  clasped 
and  resting  between  his  small  knees,  with  dark  eyes  bent  in 


TO  LORETO 


199 


somber  study  of  the  running  water.  A  tawny  straw  hat,  low- 
rounded  of  crown,  with  brim  down  in  front  and  up  behind, 
shaded  his  face,  a  kindly  face,  wrinkled,  leather-colored, 
contrasting  sharply  with  his  white  beard  and  iron  gray  mus- 
tache; a  soft  gray  shirt,  open  at  the  throat,  disclosing  his 
brown  neck  and  chest,  the  sleeves,  rolled  to  the  elbows,  dis- 
played his  red  undershirt  carefully  folded  back  at  the  wrists ; 
a  blue  scarf,  fringed  at  the  ends  and  tied  in  the  small  of  the 
back,  belted  in  his  faded  gray  trousers  and  held  a  long 
knife  ready  to  his  hand;  worn  sandals,  loosely  bound,  pro- 
tected the  soles  of  his  small  brown  feet.  Kindly,  genial 
and  willing,  a  respectful  servant,  half  philosopher,  half 
child,  and  wholly  typical  of  an  earlier  Mexican  generation, 
such  was  the  paisano  seated  before  me.  To  bathe  in  the 
stream  was  something  that  neither  Praemundi  or  Jesiis 
would  consider.  Did  they  not  wash  their  hands  before 
mixing  tortillas  ?  why  risk  a  cold  by  immersing  their  bodies  ? 

The  23rd  instant  we  proceeded  forward  and  shortly 
came  to  a  rancho,  where  I  secured  a  stout  riding  burro,  which 
Jesus  promptly  named  *'Colon"  (Columbus).  This  burro 
was  an  excellent  animal.  For  him  and  a  leather  bound 
water-bottle  I  gave  five  pesos,  cash,  an  order  for  Coronado, 
if  found  alive,  and  Cortez.  Both  parties  to  this  bargain 
were  well  satisfied,  for  while  Cortez  had  become  a  dead 
weight  for  me,  after  a  month's  rest  he  would  serve  the 
ranchero  as  well  as  Colon.  Another  league  brought  us  to 
a  second  rancho  where  for  fourteen  pesos  I  purchased  a 
second  burro,  named  **Vapor"  (Steamboat). 

In  the  acquisition  of  Vapor  I  experienced  some  delay. 
First  it  was  necessary  to  heat  an  iron,  throw  the  animal  and 
give  him  a  mark,  for  he  was  unbranded;  and  after  this 
operation  was  completed  the  vendor  discovered  that  he 
must  send  a  messenger  to  secure  requisite  revenue  stamps 
for  his  bill  of  sale.    In  bargaining  Mexicans  are  regular 


200     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


Yankees,  and  in  dealing  with  them  the  traveler  must  examine 
his  nutmegs  and  safeguard  his  purchases  as  closely  as  in 
Connecticut.  During  this  delay  the  rancheros  proceeded 
with  their  spirituous  ambition  of  draining  a  generous  num- 
ber of  bottles  of  mescal.  The  leader  of  the  party,  a  comic 
opera  bandit  in  appearance — flashing  black  eyes,  twirling 
mustachios,  ornamented  sombrero,  brilliant  plush  small 
jacket,  tasseled  sash,  long  dagger,  voluminous  trousers  and 
wide  flapping  red  leggins  bound  below  the  knee  with  orna- 
mented cords — in  the  exuberance  of  his  hilarity  swallowed 
a  copious  draught  that  was  horribly  unlike  mescal.  Crying 
out  that  he  had  been  deliberately  poisoned,  the  comic  opera 
individual  drew  his  dagger  and  rushed  toward  the  man 
nearest  him,  who  sprang  aside,  drawing  a  revolver  as  he 
avoided  the  descending  steel.  In  an  instant  daggers  were 
in  the  air  and  pandemonium  turned  loose.  Six-shooter  in 
hand,  I  was  looking  earnestly  for  a  friendly  tree,  when  the 
sufferer's  better  half  appeared  upon  the  scene  in  search  of 
her  kerosene  bottle.  It  stood  upon  the  table  where  her 
husband  had  placed  it  after  his  unsavory  taste  of  its  con- 
tents. All  thought  of  murderous  Intent  now  removed  from 
his  mind,  the  Mexican  embraced  his  wife,  kissed  a  scream- 
ing baby,  struck  a  heroic  attitude  and  proclaimed  that  he 
would  meet  death  like  a  man,  while  his  friends  crowded 
about  me  beseeching  that  I  save  his  life.  Although  I 
promptly  separated  the  tippler  from  the  kerosene  and  some 
other  things,  almost  immediately  afterwards  I  half  re- 
gretted having  done  so,  for  every  man  Jack  in  the  company, 
fascinated  by  the  appearance  of  my  medicine  chest,  at  once 
complained  of  some  ailment  and  begged  for  drugs.  All 
that  saved  my  pills  and  vials  was  the  chorus  of  howls  and 
sputtering  that  followed  my  quick  doses  of  clear  Jamaica 
ginger  and  the  bitterest  powdered  quinine. 

As  I  rode  away,  finally  possessed  of  the  stamped  bill  of 


TO  LORETO 


201 


sale,  my  bibulous  friends,  embracing  one  another  and 
rhythmically  waving  their  sombreros,  sang  almost  tearfully, 
''El  Vapor,'^  a  Mexican  farewell  song.  A  short  ride 
brought  me  to  the  central  portion  of  Punsima,  a  small  town 
which,  counting  the  racheros  up  and  down  the  stream, 
claims  six  hundred  inhabitants.  Purisima  Rio,  a  succession, 
of  large  water-holes,  carries  the  largest  body  of  any  stream 
in  Lower  California,  except  the  Hardy.  It  runs  through  a 
deep  arroyo  to  the  Boca  de  Purisima  on  the  Pacific  coast,  a 
few  leagues  distant.  In  fertile  spots  along  this  stream 
sugar-cane,  figs,  grapes,  etc.,  are  grown  extensively.  The 
Mission  of  La  Punsima  de  la  Conception  was  established 
by  the  Jesuits  in  171 8.  The  building  is  rather  a  small 
stone  structure,  situated  near  the  Rio  and  in  the  center  of 
the  town. 

As  I  was  possessed  of  a  letter  of  introduction  from  Padre 
Marseliano  to  Don  Jose  Osuna,  the  principal  resident  of 
Purisima,  my  brief  visit  there  was  made  exceedingly  agree- 
able. Senorita  Osuna,  the  Don's  sweet  faced  and  digni- 
fied daughter,  showed  me  the  mission,  and  her  brother, 
Pablo,  then  explained  to  me  the  six  steps  in  the  making  of 
mescal  from  the  maguay  plant.  The  ensuing  day  father 
and  son  made  me  their  guest  at  a  bounteous  dinner,  while  my 
mozos  were  cared  for  at  a  second  table.  Both  tables  were 
spread  in  the  Don's  garden  which,  after  the  pleasant  fash- 
ion of  Mexico,  occupied  the  patio  around  which  the  house 
was  built.  The  Senoritas  provided  us  with  two  frequent 
and  most  pleasing  standard  Baja  California  dishes,  the  one 
made  by  frying  vegetables  and  pounded  dried  beef  in  but- 
ter, the  other  by  frying  in  lard  beans  already  boiled  and 
crushed.  In  addition  they  served  rich  soup,  steak,  boiled 
potatoes,  rice  with  wild  honey,  excellent  tortillas^  jellies  and 
beaten  egg  dulce^  or  sweetmeat.  To  drink  we  had  tea,  cof- 
fee and  wine.    The  Osuna  family  is  typical  of  the  highest 


202     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


class  of  courteous,  well  informed,  dignified  and  hospitable 
native  land  owners  of  the  Peninsula. 

Eight  and  a  half  leagues  slightly  south  of  east  of  Puri- 
sima  lies  Comondu.  A  rocky,  broken  mesa  intervenes; 
after  attaining  an  increased  elevation  of  nigh  three  thou- 
sand feet  the  camino  from  Purisima  enters  this  mesa,  leav- 
ing behind  the  impressive  and  majestic  scenery  of  the  Puri- 
sima Arroyo.  Immediately  after  dinner  we  began  this  as- 
cent. At  nightfall  we  camped  by  the  wayside,  as  usual 
scraping  aside  the  larger  stones  before  throwing  down  our 
blankets.  While  we  were  eating  supper  a  large  tarantula, 
an  unbidden  and  most  unwelomce  guest,  came  marching 
up  to  my  plate.  I  yelled  lustily  and  made  a  record  jump, 
closely  followed  by  Jesiis.  Praemundi,  however,  valiantly 
crushed  the  venomous  creature  with  a  stone;  we  had  upset 
his  tarantulaship's  peace,  of  course,  in  scraping  aside  the 
stones.  Reassembling,  we  discussed  various  snakes  and 
insects  of  venomous  nature,  Praemundi  describing  native 
antidotes  for  practically  all  save  what  he  called  the  '^sole- 
cuate,"  a  blunt  tailed  snake  resembling  in  color  the  ordinary 
water  variety,  and  the  mala  zorea,  or  small  southern  skunk. 
The  bite  of  this  latter  creature — and  in  fear  of  it  the  travel- 
ling natives  draw  their  serapas  close  about  their  faces  at 
night  —  causes  hydrophobia  and  death.  Cheese  and  en- 
livening music  were  the  remedies  he  suggested  for  the  sting 
of  the  tarantula,  certain  varieties  of  which  he  considered 
fatal.  After  this  cheerful  discussion  and  before  retiring  to 
my  blankets  and  bad  dreams,  I  entered  in  my  journal,  after 
the  style  of  the  mighty  Caesar,  ^'AU  Baja  California  is  di- 
vided into  three  parts,  of  which  one  Is  all  barren  sierras, 
parched  deserts  and  thirst,  another  is  inhabited  by  snakes, 
scorpions,  centipedes,  tarantulas,  salamankasers  and  mala 
zoreas,  while  the  third  is  all  palms,  flowers,  dates,  oranges, 
sugar-cane,  honey,  running  water  and  pretty  muchachas. 


TO  LORETO 


203 


Trouble  is,  the  boundaries  on  the  parts  are  undefined/' 
The  following  day,  just  before  noon,  we  came  upon  a 
runaway  couple.  From  snakes  to  romance!  But  El 
Camino  Real  is  full  of  just  such  contrasts.  The  young 
people — they  were  eighteen  and  twenty-two — were  rest- 
ing by  the  wayside  when  we  came  upon  them.  Their 
belongings,  tucked  in  a  sack,  were  swung  across 
the  swain's  sturdy  shoulders,  a  leather  water-bottle  and 
a  pair  of  short,  pointed  shoes  were  tied  to  the  girl's 
left  arm.  He  was  clad  in  tattered  garments,  she  in  a  blue 
calico  gown  with  red  dots  in  the  waist;  an  eminently  be- 
coming yellow  rehozo,  or  native  headdress,  completed  her 
costume.  Although  she  seemed  unconscious  of  her  lack  of 
stays  and  hosiery,  she  was  plainly  distressed  at  being  found 
wearing  guarachas,  for,  as  soon  as  I  devoted  my  attention 
to  her  companion,  she  quickly  slipped  them  off  and  forced 
her  feet  into  the  shoes.  But  though  her  feet  were  small, 
the  shoes  were  yet  smaller,  and  under  their  pressure  her 
face  became  so  wofuUy  drawn  with  pain  that  I  charitably 
assured  her  that  guarachas  were  the  preferable  footgear 
for  a  rocky  camino.  This  cheered  her.  The  young  people 
were  rather  attractive  looking,  the  man's  face  showing  less 
of  the  Indian  than  the  girl's.  After  persistent  questioning 
I  gathered  their  story.  They  were  on  their  way  to  San 
Jose  del  Cabo,  where  some  of  her  people  lived  and  where 
they  would  find  a  home.  They  were  slipping  away  be- 
cause his  parents  had  objected  to  the  match.  Yes,  they 
know  that  the  Cabo  was  far  distant,  but  they  had  little  to 
carry  and  were  excellent  walkers.  His  name  was  Ramon, 
hers  Susana.  With  kindly  memories  of  a  certain  Susan,  I 
promptly  gave  Susana  the  use  of  my  riding  burro  for  ten 
miles.  She  was  grateful  and  so  was  he.  To  think  of  two 
youngsters  on  a  six-hundred-mile  walk  for  their  honeymoon 
trip  entirely  upset  my  gravity,  and  yet  their  frequent  little 


204     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


love  glances  and  the  underlying  pathos  of  the  situation  ap- 
pealed to  my  heart,  and  I  found  myself  respecting  the  wan- 
derers for  being  capable  of  so  fervent  a  devotion.  At 
luncheon  we  were  a  happy  wayside  party,  Susana  preparing 
the  tortillas,  good  ones,  too,  though  in  her  ignorance  of 
baking  powder  she  dumped  in  an  alarming  amount.  I 
caught  her  picture  as  she  patted  a  tortilla,  and  then  found 
that  she  had  no  idea  of  the  nature  or  purpose  of  a  camera. 
When  we  were  advised  by  the  waning  day  of  our  near  ap- 
proach to  Comondii,  Susana  dismounted,  and  the  last 
glimpse  I  had  she  was  heroically  working  into  the  tight 
shoes  required  by  her  sense  of  the  proprieties  to  be  ob- 
served by  a  bride. 

Ten  minutes  later  my  caravan  paused  abruptly  upon  the 
brink  of  a  deep  chasm.  Seven  hundred  feet  below  us  lay  a 
semi-tropical  park,  well-watered  and  verdant  with  olive, 
fig,  palm,  Cottonwood  and  orange  trees.  In  width  it  might 
have  measured  two  furlongs,  the  windings  of  the  arroyo 
precluded  any  further  estimate  of  its  extent.  Here  and 
there  thatch  houses  showed  through  the  foliage,  while  in 
the  midst  of  the  arroyo  a  cluster  of  adobes  stood  forth  like 
so  many  boulders  tossed  down  by  playful  Titans.  As  I 
looked  upon  this  superb  vista,  tropical  with  deep  verdure, 
waving  sugar-cane,  trellised  vines  and  tall  palms,  the  sounds 
of  lowing  cattle,  baaing  sheep  and  soft-voiced  Mexicans 
came  floating  gently  upward,  mellowed  by  the  distance,  and 
in  an  ecstasy  of  delight  I  wondered  whether  the  Happy 
Valley  of  Rasselas  could  have  had  the  charm  of  this  beau- 
tiful Arroyo  of  Comondii. 

As  a  poet  has  sung, 

**There  is  no  sun  like  the  sun  that  shines 
In  the  Valley  of  Comondu, 
There  are  palms  and  olives  and  figs  and  vines 
In  the  Valley  of  Comondu." 


TO  LORETO 


205 


Hugging  close  to  the  winding  camino  we  made  the  dizzy 
descent  into  the  valley,  where  a  letter  which  I  possessed  ad- 
mitted me  to  a  substantial  sky-blue  adobe,  the  home  of  a 
kindly  Don,  who  proved  to  be  an  exceedingly  gracious  and 
widely  informed  gentleman.  With  him  I  spent  the  night, 
receiving  the  most  hospitable  treatment,  though  through  a 
remark  made  by  Praemundi  concerning  my  performances 
as  a  medico,  I  soon  found  myself  in  an  amusing  but  em- 
barrassing position.  In  short,  I  was  invited  to  aid  in  the 
arrival  of  an  hourly  expected  addition  to  the  population  of 
Comondii ! 

The  ensuing  morning  I  continued  my  journey,  following 
a  shaded  camino  leading  up  the  arroyo.  About  eight  hun- 
dred— or  eight  hundred  and  one ! — people  reside  in  the 
Arroyo  of  Comondii,  which,  in  physical  appearance,  greatly 
resembles  that  of  San  Ignacio.  So  many  of  the  men  of 
Comondu  have  been  drawn  away  to  the  mines  at  Santa  Ro- 
sailia,  and  such  is  the  good  fame  of  its  miichachas,  that  down 
the  Peninsula  the  arroyo  is  frequently  referred  to  as  the 
^^Adamless  Eden  of  Comondu."  Some  eighteen  hundred 
acres  of  fertile  soil  are  under  cultivation.  There  are  two 
main  settlements,  a  league  apart,  the  upper  being  clustered 
around  the  old  mission.  This  is  a  truly  ancient  establish- 
ment, having  been  founded  nearly  two  centuries  ago.  Here 
is  its  story,  as  told  by  the  chroniclers:  In  the  year  1707,  one 
Padre  Julian  de  Mayorga  came  to  California  from  Spain. 
Though  he  was  a  deep  scholar,  his  health  was  so  delicate 
that  he  appeared  utterly  unfit  for  the  rigors  of  missionary 
life.  However,  after  a  year's  rest  at  Loreto,  he  sallied 
forth  with  Padres  Salvatierra  and  Ugarte.  Sixteen — only 
they  considered  it  many  more — leagues  of  rough  travel, 
westerly,  brought  the  worthy  Padres  to  a  valley  known 
among  the  Indians  as  ^^Comondu,"  or  the  Valley  of  Stones. 
From  the  high  cliffs  at  either  side  of  the  arroyo  and  the 


206     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


thick  sprinkling  of  stones  carpeting  the  mesa  to  the  north 
and  south,  I  think  the  Indians  showed  great  sense  in  choos- 
ing this  name.  A  stream  watered  this  valley  and  for  sev- 
eral leagues  there  was  much  fertile  soil.  Here  the  Padres 
paused  and  founded  the  Mission  of  San  Jose  de  Comondii. 
The  well  disposed  natives  assisted  in  the  work,  while  funds, 
to  the  extent  of  ten  thousand  pesos,  were  supplied  by  the 
Marquis  de  Villapuente,  the  most  liberal  of  the  many  con- 
tributors to  the  famed  Pious  Fund  which  supported  the  mis- 
sions for  over  a  century.  Just  above  the  stream  build- 
ings of  stone  were  erected,  fruit  trees  and  vines  planted — 
flowers  already  were  growing  in  profusion — and  the  con- 
version of  the  natives  and  the  making  of  caminos  were  aus- 
piciously begun.  In  these  pleasing  surroundings  Padre 
Mayorga,  regaining  health,  lived  peacefully  until  death 
called  twenty-eight  years  later.  San  Jose  de  Comondii 
long  flourished.  Crops  were  large  and  certain,  much  wine 
and  brandy  were  made  and  live  stock  multiplied.  The 
iglesia  was  richly  furnished  and  had  a  library  of  over  a 
hundred  volumes.  This  is  the  sum  of  the  historic  data  of 
the  old  chroniclers. 

The  mission  was  built  with  the  usual  iglesia,  ell  and  patio 
design.  With  inspiring  majesty  its  massive  stone  walls  and 
substantial  pillars  stand  sentinel  above  the  inroads  of  time, 
earthquakes  and  vandalism.  Though  vandals,  seeking  for 
building  stone,  have  made  a  breach  in  one  wall  and  growing 
trees  have  ripped  open  the  stone  and  cement  roof  above  the 
altar,  the  somber  walls,  four  feet  in  thickness,  retain  their 
solidity.  Unshaken,  too,  are  the  eight  Grecian  pillars, 
each  a  metre  in  diameter,  placed  four  on  either  side  of  the 
main  aisle  of  the  iglesia  and  supporting  the  arched  roof,  the 
keystones  of  which  are  so  cunningly  set  as  to  defy  the  cen- 
turies. Narrow  windows  and  low  doorways  admit  the 
light.    Above  the  main  entrance  there  is  a  choir  loft, 


The  walled-up  doorway  of  the  Mission  of  San  Jose 
de  Comondu 


TO  LORETO  207 

reached  by  a  narrow  spiral  stairway  of  thirty-three  steps. 
The  roof  is  vaulted  and,  in  places,  still  resplendent  with 
red  frescoing.  Above  the  eaves  stone  torches  flame  up- 
ward, and  stone  cylinders,  perhaps  for  the  drainage  of  rain- 
water from  the  roof,  point  outward  like  cannon.  The  altar 
has  been  destroyed;  at  its  right  and  left  there  are  small, 
dark  rooms.  In  length  the  interior  of  the  church  measures 
forty-five  paces,  in  width,  sixteen;  its  height  must  approxi- 
mate ten  metres.  I  obtained  an  excellent  view  of  the  in- 
terior by  climbing  to  the  crest  of  the  wall  behind  the  ruined 
altar  and  looking  down  through  the  wide  rent  made  in  the 
roof  by  growing  trees ;  from  the  outlook  before  me  I  might 
have  been  gazing  into  some  ancient  crypt. 

The  wing,  forming  with  the  iglesta  the  ell,  is  in  perfect 
state  of  preservation  and  its  two  rooms  are  utilized,  the  one 
as  a  chapel,  the  other  as  a  storeroom.  In  the  latter  there 
are  two  large  bells,  one  of  which  is  sadly  cracked;  In  view 
of  its  inscription  of  *'San  Francisco,  1697,"  latter  pre- 
sumably came  from  the  Mission  of  San  Francisco  Xavier  de 
Vigge.  Another  relic,  of  even  greater  interest,  is  a  carved 
wooden  saint,  sans  arms,  sans  feet.  I  found  him  thrust 
aside  in  a  dusty  corner  where  warlike  **yellow-jackets"  were 
engaged  in  building  a  mud  house  between  his  poor  knees. 
Charmed  by  the  sweet,  pathetic  expression  of  the  upturned 
face,  I  carried  the  poor  wooden  child — St.  Joseph  of  Ara- 
mathea,  like  as  not — into  the  sunshine  of  the  April  morn- 
ing and  placed  him  gently  beside  the  silent  old  bell.  There 
are  ten  oil  paintings  and  an  onyx  font  in  this  chapel. 

Within  the  ell  there  is  a  pretty  and  well  kept  garden  and 
two  bells  are  swung  from  a  low  wooden  frame.  One  of 
these  bells  bears  the  date  of  1708.  Back  of  the  ell  thus 
formed  by  iglesia  and  chapel,  there  is  a  well-watered  gar- 
den with  flowers  and  trees.  This  garden  is  forty  paces 
square  and  enclosed  by  stone  buildings  and  ruins. 


208      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


Though  at  Comondu,  as  at  San  Ignacio,  quarries  were 
convenient  and  labor  at  the  wage  of  sustenance  only,  never- 
theless, even  under  such  favorable  conditions,  the  construc- 
tion of  so  imposing  a  mission  must  have  required  a  far 
greater  outlay  than  the  ten  thousand  pesos  mentioned  by 
the  chroniclers.  Perhaps  the  generous  Marquis  de  Villa- 
puente  visited  his  Mission  of  Comondu,  and,  enchanted  by 
its  surroundings,  increased  his  benefaction.  It  is  of  record 
that  in  1735  he  gave  to  the  Pious  Fund  an  estate  of  several 
hundred  thousand  acres  in  Tamaulipas,  together  with  flocks 
and  herds,  farming  implements  and  appurtenances.  May 
the  Grandee  rest  in  peace,  doubly  blessed  by  his  endowment 
to  San  Jose  de  Comondu!  Also,  may  better  days  be  in 
store  for  the  Mission  and  the  crippled  little  Saint. 

Out  from  Comondu  as  many  as  three  different  caminos 
lead  over  the  famous  Sierra  Giganta,  the  local  section  of 
the  Cordilleras,  to  Loreto.  In  constructing  these  caminos 
industrious  persons — unquestionably  Indians  in  missionary 
days,  for  the  residents  do  not  Initiate  such  laborious  tasks 
nowadays — removed  the  stones,  burrowing  down  to  earth, 
so  that  for  the  first  league  or  more  the  traveler  Is  practi- 
cally below  the  surface  of  the  mesa.  Two  of  these  caminos 
are  In  frequent  use  by  pack  trains  travelling  out  from  the 
prosperous  arroyo  laden  with  cargoes  for  shipment  across 
the  Sea  of  Cortez.  I  chose  to  travel  by  the  third  and  least 
known  route.  This  I  did  because  of  certain  strange  Infor- 
mation which  I  had  received  the  evening  after  my  arrival 
at  Comondu.  At  that  time  my  kindly  host,  looking  up 
from  an  examination  of  game  trophies,  had  exclaimed 
abruptly,  "But,  senor,  how  comes  It  that  you  have  not  killed 
an  antelope  of  the  sierras  (un  herrendo  de  los  sierras)?'^ 

^^Un  berrendo  de  los  sierrasf^  I  repeated,  Inquiringly, 
with  some  unplaced  memory  struggling  back  of  my  brain. 

*'Yes,  senor.    The  berrendo  de  los  sierras  is  not  unlike 


TO  LORETO 


209 


the  mountain  sheep  m  habits,  but  he  is  thicker  through  the 
shoulders,  his  horns  extend  further  outward.  In  color 
these  animals  are  black/' 

^^Los  hay  negros'^  (they  are  black),  that  gave  clue  to  my 
unplaced  memory,  and  later  that  evening  I  turned  to  my 
notes  from  Clavijero.  ^^La  gamuza  .  .  .  es  mas  grande/^ 
wrote  the  old  Jesuit  in  his  chapter  on  the  native  California 
animals,  '^mas  agil  y  mas  veloz  que  la  cabra.  Los  animales 
de  esta  especia  se  justan  en  manadas,  y  trepan  en  los  rocas 
con  incredible  facilidad:  los  hay  blancos  y  negros;  su  piel  es 
apeciada  y  su  came  buena  para  comer/'  Translating 
gamuza  into  antelope,  the  passage  becomes,  *^The  antelope 
is  larger,  more  agile  and  swifter  than  the  goat.  This  class 
of  animals  travel  in  flocks,  and  they  leap  among  the  rocks 
with  marvelous  ease:  they  are  white  and  black;  the  hides 
are  esteemed  and  the  meat  is  good  for  eating." 

Who  ever  heard  of  an  American  antelope  that  was  black? 
and  on  the  other  hand,  who  ever  observed  one  at  a  distance 
without  thinking  of  its  being  white?  Clavijero's  white  an- 
telopes must  be  the  ordinary  variety,  his  gamuzos  negros 
must  be  my  host's  antelopes  of  the  sierras;  having  come  to 
this  conclusion  I  went  to  sleep  with  the  firm  intention  of 
hunting  the  strange  animal. 

Two  days  later,  therefore,  having  in  the  meantime  fol- 
lowed the  little  known  route  heretofore  mentioned,  I  made 
camp  in  an  eerie  spot  high  up  in  the  Sierra  Giganta,  where  a 
goat-herd  had  erected  a  poor  adobe  and  a  corral  in  the 
shadow  of  frightful  precipices,  above  which  towered  a 
threatening  black  picacho.  Early  the  next  morning  I  started 
forth  with  Manuel,  the  goat-herd's  eighteen-year-old  son. 
The  climbing  abilities  of  this  untutored  youth  were  so  su- 
perb as  to  be  worthy  of  notice.  Striking  a  gait  which  was 
a  jog,  varied  with  goat-like  leaps,  he  calmly  attained  the 
summit  of  that  peak  without  so  much  as  getting  out  of 


2IO     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


breath,  though  my  aneroid  showed  its  elevation  to  be  3,650 
feet  above  our  sierra  camp.  For  my  own  part  I  was  nearly 
exhausted,  though  I  had  merely  followed  in  his  wake,  while 
he,  searching  out  the  one  break  in  the  precipices  where  as- 
cent was  possible,  had  sturdily  hacked  with  his  keen  machete 
a  passageway  through  the  thickets  of  tunas,  palo  A  dan,  una 
de  gato,  garahatillo  and  other  thorny  shrubs  that  hindered 
our  advance.  According  to  Manuel,  we  were  the  first  to 
take  the  trouble  to  ascend  the  picacho,  though  one  of  his 
goats  had  twice  made  the  ascent,  hobbled. 

When  we  were  at  an  elevation  of  4,000  feet  above  sea- 
level,  Manuel  suddenly  pointing  toward  the  east,  exclaimed, 
* 'There,  Seiior,  dos  herrendos  de  los  sierras  Looking  in 
the  direction  indicated,  I  saw  two  dark  animals,  one  far 
larger  than  any  mountain  sheep  I  had  ever  seen,  with  great 
head  and  Immense  ram's  horns  extending  far  outward  and 
of  extreme  bulk  about  the  shoulders.  The  smaller  animal 
slipped  into  the  brush  before  I  had  a  good  view  of  it.  The 
ram  was  jumping  leisurely  along  among  some  rocks  not  over 
two  hundred  yards  away,  but  as  I  drew  down  upon  him  the 
rising  sun  glinted  over  the  sights,  obstructing  my  aim.  In 
another  Instant  the  herrendo  disappeared  In  the  brush,  and 
although  we  found  his  great  tracks  we  had  no  further  sight 
of  the  creature  throughout  the  day.  Manuel  explained 
that  usually  these  berrendos  were  less  wild,  not  being  hunted, 
and  that  they  kept  aloof  from  the  borregos  which  also 
ranged  on  the  picacho. 

Late  that  afternoon  while  tracking  I  became  separated 
from  Manuel,  and,  descending  from  the  heights,  reached 
camp,  alone,  at  night.  As  I  lay  on  a  pile  of  hides,  dress- 
ing a  bad  ankle  and  extracting  thorns  from  my  arms  and 
shoulders,  wondering  the  while  whether  two  days'  rest 
would  fit  me  for  another  try  at  the  berrendos,  Into  camp 
rode  a  Mexican,  the  bearer  of  such  news  concerning  San 


The  carved  wooden  Saint  of  San  Jose  de  Comondii 


TO  LORETO 


211 


Francisco,  the  home  of  those  nearest  to  me,  that  breaking 
camp  hastily  the  following  morning  I  pressed  onward  with- 
out further  search  for  game. 

To  me,  perturbed  in  mind,  how  endless  that  day  seemed ! 
Finally,  after  sixteen  hours  of  rugged  travel,  we  made  camp, 
halting  beneath  a  group  of  ancient  palms  hard  by  the  sea. 
The  faint  light  of  a  late  moon  picked  out  silver  spots  be- 
neath the  boughs,  it  made  shadow  pictures  of  somber  build- 
ings, it  glistened  on  the  rippling  waters  of  the  Sea  of  Cortez. 
A  dog  ceased  baying  the  moon  to  challenge  us  entering  the 
sleeping  village.  Completely  exhausted,  torn  by  haunting 
anxieties,  I  threw  myself  upon  my  blankets.  After  over 
a  thousand  miles  of  El  Camino  Real  I  had  come  to  sacred 
Loreto,  the  Mother  of  Missions,  the  ancient  Capital  of  the 
Californias,  but  my  thoughts  were  far  away  in  Alta  Cali- 
fornia. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE  PEARL  MISSIONS  OF  THE  JESUITS 

UNDER  a  canopy  of  fluttering  palms  and  spreading 
eighteenth  century  shade  trees,  her  poor  shoulders 
pressed  close  against  the  thorny  thickets  of  a 
treacherous  arroyo,  the  bereft  Mother  of  the  Missions 
sleeps  the  southern  sleep  of  forgetfulness  while  the  croon- 
ing voices  of  the  Vermilion  Sea  whisper  wistfully  about  her. 
They  are  telling  of  the  days  when  the  admirals  of  Cortez 
sought  the  Island  of  California,  they  are  singing  of  the 
knightly  Salvatierra,  first  of  the  Jesuits,  of  the  earnest 
Franciscan,  Junipero  Serra,  of  cowled  Dominicans,  of 
haughty  Dons,  earliest  Governors  of  the  Californias,  who 
here  held  court.  They  are  murmuring  of  armadores  de 
ferlas  who  delved  deep  for  brilliant  pearls.  With  plain- 
tive sadness  they  are  whispering  of  storms  that  rocked  the 
Mother  Mission,  of  corsairs  who  bore  away  her  wreaths  of 
pearls,  of  the  passing  of  the  Padres,  of  glories  lost,  of  op- 
pression, of  neglect  and  of  dreams. 

As  I  passed  through  the  fringe  of  thatched  houses  and 
entered  the  plaza  with  its  eighteenth  century  buildings  of 
adobe  and  of  stone,  I  felt  that  perchance  the  magic  of  the 
south  had  traced  its  finger  tips  across  my  brain,  that  perhaps 
the  sharp  imagery  in  my  agitated  mind  would  fade  could  I 
but  silence  the  voices  of  the  sea.  It  is  easy  for  him  who  is 
far  removed  by  distance  to  imagine,  unreasoningly,  disaster 
and  death — and  yet  it  is  difficult  for  such  a  one  to  realize 
their  actuality  when  they  come  in  fact.    Were  my  thoughts 

213 


214     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


mere  fantastic  dreams?  was  I  sleeping?  was  I  waking?  was 
my  reason  perchance  disturbed  by  some  fever?  Insidiously, 
then  clamorously,  these  questions  arose,  challenging  con- 
sideration. In  my  native  language,  from  the  one  American 
in  the  village  I  had  just  heard  the  unbelievable  northern 
catastrophe  verified,  with  merely  a  lessening  of  the  loss  of 
life  first  related,  and  had  had  thrust  into  my  hands  a  Los 
Angeles  paper  that,  by  illustrations  and  headlines,  certified 
to  the  destruction  and  burning  of  San  Francisco. 

From  a  merchant  on  the  plaza  I  learned  that  Loreto  had 
no  communication  with  the  world  either  by  telephone  or  by 
telegraph;  that  a  Gulf  steamer  had  come  in  on  the  28th 
instant  and  another  might  touch  in  a  week,  though  perhaps 
not  for  two  weeks;  that  the  American  steamer,  the 
Curacao  from  San  Francisco  might  stop  at  Magdalena 
Bay  on  the  9th  of  May,  it  certainly  would  touch  at  La  Paz 
on  the  17th  of  May.  How  far  distant  was  Magdalena 
Bay?  Quien  sabe,  probably  seventy-five  leagues;  La  Paz 
was  one  hundred  and  ten.  My  course  I  outlined  even  as 
he  spoke :  Magdalena  Bay,  then  back  across  the  Peninsula 
to  La  Paz.  I  consulted  with  Praemundi.  The  burros 
were  a  trifle  tired  after  their  hard  trip  from  Sant'  Agueda, 
but  pasada  manana  (day  after  to-morrow)  he  thought  they 
would  be  ready  for  the  camino.  Could  they  start  to-mor- 
row afternoon?  ^'Si^  senor,  listo  manana  tardeSy^  (Yes, 
sir,  ready  to-morrow  afternoon)  was  his  reply. 

Half  wishing  myself  a  devout  Roman  Catholic,  able  to 
forget  all  troubles  in  prostration  before  the  Cross,  I  strolled 
over  to  the  mission,  mechanically  noting  its  detail.  large 
church  It  was,  built  of  stone,  the  rough  and  cut  cemented  to- 
gether, flat  roofed,  with  bells  swung  above  the  northeast 
corner.  Off  at  the  right  were  a  cemetery  and  an  ell  form- 
ing a  chapel;  to  the  left  extended  a  goodly  patio.  At  the 
main  entrance,  facing  the  sea,  there  were  doors,  double  and 


THE  PEARL  MISSIONS  OF  THE  JESUITS  215 


ancient.  Pausing  before  them  I  searched  in  vain  for  the 
inscription  mentioned  by  the  historian  Bancroft  as  being 
upon  the  casement.  Entering,  I  noticed  above  me  a  pro- 
jecting gallery,  perhaps  a  choir  loft,  with  a  high  carved  rail- 
ing. So  long  and  narrow  was  the  interior  of  the  church 
that  I  had  an  impression  not  unlike  that  received  upon  enter- 
ing a  deep,  high  vaulted  cave.  Thinking  of  the  early  days 
when  the  altar  was  decked  with  golden  ornaments  and  the 
shrines  and  images  with  ropes  of  pearls,  I  could  easily 
imagine  that  on  holy  days  the  flickering  candles  made  a 
scene  as  effective  as  when  twinkling  lights  call  forth  a  bril- 
liant resplendency  among  the  myriad  stalactites  in  some 
deep  and  lofty  cavern.  By  pacing  I  found  the  width  of  the 
interior  but  twenty  feet  while  its  length  was  nearly  nine 
times  as  great;  the  height  I  estimated  at  thirty-five  feet. 
With  walls  five  feet  in  thickness  the  windows  and  doors  of 
the  church  are  deeply  indented;  shutters  and  rounded 
wooden  bars  protect  the  windows.  The  flooring  is  part 
stone  cubes,  part  earth — and  the  footprints  in  the  dust  are 
all  of  women.  Though  made  of  stone  the  altar  has  been 
sadly  dismantled.  About  it  there  are  several  one-piece 
onyx  fonts,  beautiful  even  in  their  fractured  state.  Above 
the  altar  hang  three  large  oil  paintings  and  five  empty 
frames;  above  and  back  of  the  shrines — of  which  there  are 
several — there  are  immense  torn  tapestries,  sadly  faded 
from  the  rain  that  has  come  through  the  leaky  roof.  At 
the  left  of  the  altar  there  is  a  closed  room,  used  to  store 
what  has  escaped  the  cupidity  of  vandals.  From  the  patio 
a  broken  stairway  leads  through  the  choir  loft  and  upwards 
to  the  roof  and  the  bells,  five  in  number.  Dating  back  as 
they  do  to  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century,  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  the  rim  surfaces  of  these  bells  have  been  worn 
smooth,  the  outer  surfaces,  too,  for  the  usual  method  of 
sounding  them  seems  to  have  been  for  a  man  to  strike  them 


21 6     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


in  quick  succession  with  an  iron  bar.  The  mission  has  suf- 
fered so  severely  from  earthquakes  and  neglect  that  only  a 
suggestion  of  its  pristine  beauty  and  majesty  now  remains — 
and  unless  repairs  are  promptly  made  the  main  building 
will  shortly  fall  asunder. 

Though  the  Padre  comes  but  once  a  year  the  women  of 
Loreto  are  constant  in  their  visits  to  the  church.  Even  while 
I  loitered  within  its  precincts  a  sound  of  deep  sobbing  adver- 
tised the  presence  of  a  worshiper.  She  had  thrown  herself 
down  at  the  right  of  the  altar  before  a  latticed  door  through 
which  she  could  look  upon  the  image  of  the  Virgin  in  the 
adjoining  chapel.  A  more  forlorn  figure  I  never  saw. 
Absorbed,  unconscious  of  my  presence,  she  poured  forth  her 
grief  in  doleful  cadence,  confessing  such  transgressions  that 
I  fled  in  embarrassment. 

In  Loreto  there  are  half  a  thousand  residents,  varied  and 
numerous  varieties  of  fruits  and  vegetables  grow  readily 
and  there  is  a  considerable  export  trade,  much  of  it  being 
the  produce  of  Comondu.  Off  shore  a  league  or  so  lies 
Carmen  Island  where  there  is  a  supply  of  salt  so  inexhaust- 
ible as  to  remind  one  of  the  fairy  tale  of  a  salt  mill  that 
supplied  the  ocean.  To  the  west  of  the  town  rise  the  ma- 
jestic heights  of  the  Sierra  Giganta.  But  I  gave  small  heed 
to  surroundings,  scenery  or  people,  though  I  do  remember 
that  it  was  the  first  settlement  in  Lower  California  where 
I  found  the  word  ''Gringo^'  in  use  in  place  of  the  more  gra- 
cious Americano/^  Also,  and  with  pleasure,  I  recall  a 
young  Mexican  of  twenty-five  or  six,  Don  Amadeo  Romero, 
who  introduced  himself  and  his  brother  to  me:  they  were 
the  most  thorough  gentlemen  and  the  most  progressive  men 
of  their  age  whom  I  had  met  upon  the  Peninsula.  **Sir,'* 
said  Don  Amadeo,  "you  presented  a  carta  de  recommen- 
dacion  to  a  gentleman  in  Santa  Rosalia  to  whose  daughter 
I  have  the  honor  to  be  affianced.   It  is  my  privilege,  there- 


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THE  PEARL  MISSIONS  OF  THE  JESUITS 


217 


fore,  to  be  at  your  service  and  it  will  be  a  pleasure  for  me 
to  give  you  cartas  to  my  friends  further  south."  Did  I 
want  to  write  ?  Yes,  it  would  be  fitting  for  me  to  write  from 
Loreto,  the  early  capital  of  old  California,  to  the  Governor 
of  the  new  California  at  Sacramento;  furthermore,  I  would 
write  to  my  brother.  Then  the  office  was  at  my  disposal, 
the  library,  too,  the  home.  Ah,  how  can  the  traveler  fully 
express  his  appreciation  of  that  gracious  courtesy  of 
Mexico,  inherited  from  the  ancient  Dons,  that  expansive 
hospitality  which,  upon  the  slightest  demand,  blossoms  out, 
flower-like. 

I  spent  the  evening  leaning  against  a  lancha  down  by  the 
shore,  looking  abstractedly  out  across  the  moonlit  waves. 
Disturbed  at  length  by  two  drunken  Yaqui  Indians,  I  tapped 
my  revolver  significantly  and  strode  away  to  my  blankets. 
The  ensuing  morning  I  revisited  the  Mission  in  time  to  wit- 
ness an  interesting  little  scene  in  the  chapel.  The  mother  of 
five  daughters  had  come  to  give  tardy  thanks  to  Our  Lady 
of  Loreto — the  special  patroness,  apparently,  of  mothers, 
for  an  infant  son.  Kneeling  before  the  image,  the  naked 
child  in  her  arms,  the  mother  poured  forth  her  prayers  of 
gratitude  and  thanksgiving.  From  the  walls  twenty  paint- 
ings of  sacred  characters  looked  down  upon  the  scene,  while 
flowers  decked  the  altar,  making  fragrant  the  air.  Soon 
the  father  and  muchachas  entered  and  I  was  given  permis- 
sion to  take  a  picture  of  the  mother  and  babe. 

**He  is  a  man-child,  a  man-child,"  cried  the  woman,  fond- 
ling the  chubby  infant,  happily. 

"I  have  a  son,"  said  the  father,  proudly.  Then  in  his 
expansive  joy  he  inquired  whether  I  had  sons.  *What,  un 
solteroF^  he  exclaimed  aghast.  Quickly  recovering  himself, 
he  added,  with  a  gay  laugh,  **Ah,  our  first  born.  Carmen" — 
or  Maria,  Lolita,  Josefa — I  have  unromantically  forgotten 
just  which — **is  twelve,  in  three  years  return,  she  will  then 


21 8      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


be  a  Sefiorita.  You  may  wed  her,  Senor."  Carmen — or 
Maria,  Lolita,  Josefa — her  father's  arm  on  her  shoulder, 
nodded  smilingly  while  I,  placing  my  hand  upon  my  heart, 
bowed  in  acknowledgment  of  the  honor. 

That  afternoon.  May  the  first,  I  was  again  on  the  camino. 
Departing  from  Loreto  by  the  Los  Parros  trail,  we  soon 
escaped  from  the  cactus  clad  plains  and  entered  a  long  wind- 
ing arroyo  from  which  a  steep  trail  ascends  into  the  Sierra 
Giganta,  passing  through  the  precipitous  gorge  of  Los  Par- 
ros. Here,  turning  in  the  saddle,  I  obtained  a  superb  view 
in  which  the  distant  Gulf,  the  sloping  plains,  the  lofty  cliffs, 
the  pinnacled  picachos,  the  ferns,  wild  grape  vines  and  mes- 
quit  were  before  the  eye  at  a  single  glance.  By  the  upper 
end  of  the  gorge  and  beyond  a  sudden  turn  in  the  trail  snug- 
gles the  Rancho  of  Los  Parros,  a  few  verdant  acres  of  rich 
soil  drawing  life  from  a  tiny  network  of  irrigating  ditches 
and  rich  in  lofty  olive  trees,  fluttering  palms,  ancient  orange 
trees — full  ten  metres  in  height — trellised  vines  and  deep 
green  garden.  On  the  2nd  instant  we  crossed  a  divide  byond 
Los  Parros  and  soon  came  to  another  rancho,  the  Watering 
Place  of  Doves,  a  name  typical  of  many  of  the  euphonious 
and  delightful  designations  to  be  found  among  the  Penin- 
sula ranchos.  The  name  of  this  rancho,  however,  proved 
more  attractive  than  its  people,  whose  ranching,  by  the  way, 
consisted  in  making  mescal. 

A  league  and  half  southeast  from  this  rancho  brought 
us  to  a  sharp  bend  in  the  arroyo,  passing  which  we  arrived 
unexpectedly  before  the  Mission  of  San  Xavier.  Although 
I  had  heard  extravagant  tales  from  the  natives  concerning 
the  beauty  of  this  mission  I  was  in  no  wise  prepared  for  the 
splendor  of  the  structure  that  now  arose  before  me.  Cross- 
ing a  small  brooklet,  we  entered  the  village — a  few  Indian 
shacks  and  half  a  dozen  low  Mexican  adobes — and  rode 
down  its  single  street,  guarded  on  our  right  by  a  stone  wall 


THE  PEARL  MISSIONS  OF  THE  JESUITS  219 


that  seemed  to  admit  the  futility  of  endeavoring  to  screen 
the  immense  orange,  lemon,  olive  and  pomegranate  trees 
which  even  generations  ago  must  have  overtopped  its  high- 
est points.  At  the  north  end  of  the  street  there  stood  a  sub- 
stantial stone  monument  surmounted  by  an  ancient  stone 
cross.  Down  at  the  farther  end  of  the  street,  a  hundred 
paces  distant,  rose  the  Mission  of  San  Francisco  Xavier  de 
Vigge,  a  splendid  stone  structure,  rich  in  the  noble  elegance 
of  Moorish  and  Romanesque  architecture,  and  worthy  of 
the  name  of  the  most  beautiful  mission  church  on  the  Pacific 
coast.  Since  the  halcyon  days  of  the  missions  when  noble 
prelates  and  armored  grandees  made  stated  visits  to  the 
Peninsula,  doubtless  no  Bishop's  eyes  have  seen  this  glorious 
church  of  the  wilderness.  Once  only,  in  each  year,  does  a 
Padre  cross  the  threshold.  A  dozen,  possibly  fifteen,  fami- 
lies, Indian  and  Mexican,  constitute  the  village :  they  are  the 
sole  worshipers  before  the  rich  altar  of  San  Xavier;  they  are 
the  sole  guardians  of  its  precincts,  the  faithful  custodians  of 
its  secrets.  Close  around  iglesia,  adobes,  and  shacks,  rise 
the  lofty  peaks  and  ridges  of  the  Sierra  GIganta,  grimly 
watching,  protecting. 

From  the  southwest  corner  of  the  iglesia  there  juts  out  an 
ell  within  which  dwells  a  kindly  Mexican  family.  Here, 
doubtless,  in  olden  times  the  Padres  lived  and  received 
chance  travelers;  here,  until  my  departure  the  following 
day,  I  was  lodged,  for,  as  I  bore  a  letter  to  the  Senor  of 
the  household  from  Don  Amadeo,  a  hospitable  welcome 
was  accorded  me.  The  few  hours  at  my  disposal,  except- 
ing the  time  I  spent  in  chatting  with  my  hosts  and  paying 
visits  to  a  sick  boy  in  the  principal  adobe,  I  passed  with 
delighted  interest  within  the  church. 

One  entered  by  a  great  double  doorway  at  the  west.  Simi- 
lar doorways  open  out  at  the  north  and  east.  Once  there 
was  a  patio  into  which  the  western  doorway  opened.  Pre- 


220     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


sumably,  those  at  the  north  constitute  the  main  entrance,  for 
cut  In  the  stone  archway  above,  are  the  figures  175 1,  being, 
I  assume,  the  date  of  completion  of  the  structure.  By  the 
eastern  doorway  there  is  a  cemetery.  A  well-built  wall  of 
cut  stone  protects  the  churchyard  at  the  north  and  east; 
to  the  south  there  are  stone  cisterns  and  aqueducts,  the  ruins 
of  an  earlier  church,  and  perhaps  fifteen  acres  of  irrigable 
land.  The  interior  of  the  church  is  spacious  and  well  lighted. 
In  length  it  measures  forty  paces,  in  width,  seven;  the  height 
must  be  above  twelve  metres.  The  broad  doorways  indent 
the  sides.  High  aloft,  on  either  side,  four  windows — deep 
set  for  the  solid  walls  are  five  feet  in  thickness — admit  the 
light.  The  altar  is  of  stone  and  wood,  and  on  either  side 
doors  open  into  lofty  rooms  wherein  are  stored  what  re- 
mains of  the  ancient  and  costly  altar  trappings.  Eight  paces 
below  the  altar  there  is  a  carved  altar  rail,  and  on  either 
side  of  and  below  this  rail  there  are  alcoves,  seven  paces  by 
five,  floor  dimensions.  Each  alcove  has  its  saintly  shrines. 
The  floor  of  the  iglesia  is  level  and  marvelously  smooth,  the 
blocks  of  stone  with  which  it  was  constructed  having  been 
cunningly  welded  together  with  a  rare  cement,  the  secret  of 
which  is  said  to  be  lost.  The  walls  are  whitened,  the  roof 
is  vaulted  and  in  places  there  are  frescos.  Bending  forward 
slightly,  back  and  above  the  altar,  stands  a  life  size  image 
of  San  Francisco,  skillfully  carved  out  of  hard  wood. 
Against  the  wall,  above  the  image,  there  are  two  full  length 
oil  paintings  of  saints,  ranged  one  above  the  other,  while 
two  other  tiers  of  paintings  with  three  canvases  to  the 
tier,  are  arranged  one  on  either  side  of  the  center  tier.  Each 
shrine,  moreover,  has  similar  sets  of  paintings,  together 
with  many  smaller  ones.  At  the  east  shrine  there  is  a  small 
canvas  with  a  masterly  representation  of  the  Last  Supper. 
From  each  of  the  shrines  some  paintings  have  been 
abstracted,  so,  also,  have  some  of  the  jewels  from  the 


The  mother  and  child  in  the  chapel  at  Loreto 


THE  PEARL  MISSIONS  OF  THE  JESUITS  221 


Communion  Service  and  from  the  halo  of  San  Francisco. 

Within  and  just  above  the  main  entrance  to  the  church 
there  is  a  choir  loft,  with  a  spiral  stairway  leading  to  it  and 
upward  to  the  dome-shaped  belfry  above,  where  once  eight 
great  bells  chimed  forth  their  peals.  The  upper  portion  of 
this  stairway  is  of  palm  wood  and  shows  signs  of  decay,  the 
lower  portion  is  of  stone.  Six  of  the  bells  have  been  re- 
moved: one  to  the  City  of  Mexico,  one  to  Loreto  and  the 
others  to  La  Paz  and  Comondii.  Roof  and  belfry,  alike, 
are  of  stone  and  cement  and  there  is  no  evidence  of  tiling 
about  the  structure.  So  magnificent  was  the  workmanship 
of  the  builders  of  San  Xavler  that  the  passage  of  time, 
neglect  and  the  convulsions  of  the  earth,  alike,  have  failed 
to  mar  their  handiwork  and  the  mission  stands  to-day  in  a 
perfect  state  of  preservation. 

The  history  of  the  mission  dates  back  to  the  seventeenth 
century,  for  it  was  in  the  fall  of  1697  that  Padre  Francisco 
Maria  Piccolo,  a  highly  educated  native  of  Sicily  and  a 
staunch  friend  of  Salvatierra,  joined  the  latter  at  Loreto 
with  a  firm  purpose  of  establishing  a  mission.  Two  years 
later  he  successfully  laid  the  foundations  of  the  Mission  of 
San  Francisco  Xavier  de  Vigge.  San  Xavier  was  located 
in  the  midst  of  an  Indian  settlement,  situated  eight  leagues 
southwest  of  Loreto.  With  a  stream  of  water  and  a  plot  of 
fertile  soil  near  by,  crops  were  abundant;  the  Indians,  how- 
ever, were  turbulent  and  to  curb  them  required  much  mus- 
cular Christianity. 

The  site  was  thrice  changed.  This  data  and  a  mass  of 
miraculous  details  are  provided  by  the  old  chroniclers.  Tra- 
dition adds  that  over  two  million  pesos,  a  portion  of  the 
Virgin's  share  in  the  pearl  fisheries  of  the  Gulf,  were  ex- 
pended on  the  iglesia,  the  service  and  paintings,  that  the 
work  of  construction  continued  over  thirty  years  and  that 
buried  treasure  lies  within  ninety-nine  metres  of  the  altar. 


222      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


Were  San  Xavier  in  the  path  of  the  sight-seer  its  beauty 
would  be  heralded  universally.  In  the  closing  days  of  the 
eighteenth  century  there  were  over  thirty  mission  establish- 
ments in  Baja  California.  To-day  ten  secular  Italian  priests, 
volunteers  sent  by  his  Holiness  the  Pope,  minister  to  the 
Californians.  To  the  three  most  beautiful  Missions,  San 
Ignacio,  Comondu  and  San  Xavier,  a  Padre  comes  but  once 
a  year.  Rarely,  indeed,  are  these  missions  visited  by 
travelers  from  the  outer  world.  Ignorant  eyes  gaze  sleep- 
ily upon  massive  architecture  in  which  Grecian,  Moorish 
and  Spanish  types  are  strangely  blended.  Paintings  over 
which  Italian  masters  labored,  look  down  upon  unapprecia- 
tive  clods.  When  the  Anglo-Saxon  visitor  comes,  he  usually 
comes  as  a  despoiler,  seeking  for  buried  treasure  which 
exists  frequently  in  tradition,  only,  or  in  fable. 

Although  the  sierras  tower  above  the  tglesia  of  San 
Xavier  in  all  the  somber  grandeur  of  repellent  cliffs,  its 
shadows  fall  upon  lovely  gardens  where  sweet-scented 
flowers  bloom  in  the  midst  of  alfalfa,  corn,  garabanzas  and 
grain,  where  delicate  tendrils  from  trellised  vines  cling  to 
white  limbs  of  mammoth  fig  trees  and  where  olive,  pome- 
granate, orange  and  lemon  trees  rival  one  another  in  their 
unusual  size.  The  oranges  are  juicy  and  of  excellent  flavor. 
The  lemons  are  large,  rounded  like  an  orange  and  in  taste 
resemble  grape  fruit  rather  than  the  lemons  produced  in 
more  northerly  climes.  When  we  made  our  departure  from 
San  Xavier,  we  were  overwhelmed  with  these  golden  fruits, 
tokens  of  a  mother's  grateful  appreciation  of  the  medicines 
which  I  had  gladly  administered  to  her  sick  boy* 


CHAPTER  XVII 


A  LONG  FORCED  MARCH 

BEFORE  leaving  San  Xavier  I  gave  serious  considera- 
tion to  the  journey  immediately  before  us.  Accord- 
ing to  local  authority,  La  Paz,  via  the  shortest 
trail,  the  San  Luis  Camino,  lay  distant  one  hundred  leagues. 
As  local  authority  could  safely  be  depended  upon  for  an 
exaggeration  of  sierra  distances,  I  reduced  the  hundred  to 
sixty-five.  From  this  route,  however,  it  would  be  neces- 
sary for  us  to  deviate  many  leagues  in  order  to  carry  out 
my  plan  of  making  inquiry  for  news  at  Matancital,  near  the 
great  Bay  of  Magdalena  on  the  Pacific.  How  many  leagues 
of  deviation,  I  could  only  indefinitely  surmise,  for  I  had  been 
unable  to  find  anyone  who  had  ever  traveled  to  La  Paz, 
via  Matancital.  I  knew  that  S^n  Luis  lay  in  the  sierras. 
Praemundi  was  certain  that  the  barren  sweep  of  the  dread 
Llanos  de  Magdalena  measured  full  twenty-five  leagues 
from  the  ocean  to  the  sierras.  If  this  proved  correct,  cross- 
ing the  Llanos  de  Magdalena  and  then  swinging  back  to  San 
Luis  would  increase  the  distance  to  La  Paz  by  fifty  leagues. 
Realizing  that  on  the  plains  a  mule  might  approach  his  two 
leagues  per  hour,  I  merely  struck  off  one-sixth  from  Prae- 
mundi's  figures,  leaving  the  aggregate  distance  at  one  hun- 
dred and  seven  leagues,  an  accurate  approximation  for  the 
Matancital  route,  as  I  learned  later.  To  reach  La  Paz 
the  night  before  the  arrival  of  the  steamer  Curacao,  it 
would  be  necessary  to  cover  this  distance  in  fourteen  days, 
inclusive.    This  meant  an  average  of  twenty-three  miles  a 

223 


224     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


day,  over  rough  and  unknown  trails  and  with  no  allowance 
for  rests. 

Possessed  by  anxiety  concerning  the  consequences  of  the 
northern  disaster,  I  cared  for  no  rests,  and  realizing  the 
possibility  of  the  steamer's  bringing  me  such  personal  ill 
news  that  I  would  wish  to  dispose  of  my  outfit  and  take 
passage  for  its  return  trip  on  the  20th  instant,  I  felt  that  I 
simply  must  undertake,  and,  within  the  fourteen  days,  must 
complete  the  impressively  long  march  to  Matancital  and 
thence  to  La  Paz.  My  mozos  appreciating  my  anxiety  stood 
ready  to  push  on,  although  they  both  feared  the  dread 
Llanos  de  Magdalena.  In  deliberating  I  gave  serious 
thought  to  my  animals.  My  outfit  consisted  of  two  large 
pack  burros.  Vapor  and  Cabrillo,  and  two  riding  burros. 
Colon  and  Serrano.  Of  these  Cabrillo  and  Serrano  had 
just  covered  two  hundred  and  forty  miles  from  Sant' 
Agueda  in  eighteen  days,  during  six  of  which  they  had 
been  at  rest.  Prior  to  this  and  with  but  a  fortnight's  rest 
intervening,  Cabrillo,  the  finest  burro  I  ever  knew  of,  had 
come  in  ten  weeks  through  eight  hundred  and  fifty  miles  of 
sierras  and  deserts,  bearing  a  cargo  at  times  weighing  two 
hundred  pounds.  He  now  carried  one  hundred  and  thirty 
pounds  and  Vapor  about  ninety.  With  my  one  hundred  and 
sixty  pounds  of  avoirdupois,  my  saddle,  canteen,  cantinas, 
carbine,  revolver  and  camera.  Colon  had  two  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds  to  carry.  Serrano,  an  active  stocky  burro, 
had  an  easy  time  with  Jesus,  a  slender  boy  sitting  a  light 
saddle.  Finally,  my  animals,  my  mozos  and  I  were  in  per- 
fect physical  condition. 

Midday  of  the  third  of  May  bidding  the  kindly  people 
of  San  Xavier  ^'Jdios/^  we  entered  the  camino  southward 
bound.  Following  the  course  of  the  arroyo  for  three  and  a 
half  leagues  we  came  to  a  grove  of  superb  fan  palms  grow- 
ing in  the  mouth  of  an  intersecting  arroyo  down  which  we 


A  LONG  FORCED  MARCH 


225 


turned.  Half  a  league  further  I  discovered  in  a  thicket  of 
brush  and  cacti,  just  off  the  camino,  the  ruins  of  an  extremely 
ancient  mission.  The  iglesia  had  been  well  constructed  of 
cut  stone  and  its  walls  were  still  standing.  Near  at  hand 
were  the  remains  of  other  buildings  made  of  rough  stone; 
also,  and  in  excellent  state  of  preservation,  a  magnificent 
cistern,  seventy  feet  square  and  six  feet  in  depth,  and  a  large 
corral  with  high  substantial  stone  walls.  Two  sets  of  stone 
stairways  descended  into  the  cistern  and  aqueducts  led  to 
and  from  it.  In  response  to  inquiries  which  I  put  to  him,  a 
passing  ranchero  stated  that  this  was  the  site  and  these  were 
the  ruins  of  La  Presentacion,  a  mission  far  antedating  San 
Xavier.  As  no  such  mission  is  mentioned  by  the  chroniclers, 
La  Presentacion  was  doubtless  the  first  foundation  of 
San  Xavier  and  as  the  earliest  structures  at  Loreto  were 
temporary,  this  iglesia  is  probably  the  oldest  mission  church 
in  the  Californias,  the  one  survival,  indeed,  from  the  seven- 
teenth century. 

Early  the  morning  of  the  4th  instant  we  were  under  way 
and  thereafter  the  journey  became  a  feverish,  restless  march. 
Weeks  before  I  had  read  those  lines  in  which  Kipling  de- 
scribes the  impatience  that  seizes  upon  the  hunter  and  now 
into  my  mind  again  and  again  came  the  second  stanza, 

**He  must  go-go-go  away  from  here! 
On  the  other  side  the  world  he's  overdue, 
'Send  your  road  is  clear  before  you 
When  the  old  Spring  fret  comes  o'er  you 
And  the  Red  Gods  call  for  you!" 

I  seemed  unable  to  escape  the  first  three  lines  and  over  and 
over  with  personal  application  I  would  repeat, 

" — go-go-go  away  from  here! 
On  the  other  side  the  world  you're  overdue, 
'Send  the  road  is  clear  before  you — 
— go-go-go  away  from  here!"  etc. 


226     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


For  a  time  I  fretted  constantly  over  the  slow  advance  of  my 
burros  and  chafed  because,  not  daring  to  assume  that  the 
San  Francisco  banks  had  weathered  the  storm,  I  could  not, 
by  recourse  to  my  check  book,  purchase  horses.  But  when 
the  caminos  were  at  their  worst  and  grazing  scant  I  realized 
that  the  horse  has  his  limitations  and  the  burro  his  advan- 
tages. For  the  humbler  beast  no  sierra  trail  is  too  fearful, 
no  provender  too  poor;  browsing  on  cacti  he  can  exist  with- 
out water;  he  survives  or  avoids  the  eating  of  poisonous 
herbs;  he  outlasts  all  other  beasts  of  the  sierra  caminos. 
Though  his  pace  is  deadly  slow,  it  is  steady,  continuous;  it 
goes  on,  on,  monotonously  on  perhaps,  but  ever  on,  un- 
swervingly on,  on,  cutting  away  and  wearing  down  distance 
until  the  goal  is  attained.  And  yet  when  one  is  in  a  hurry 
this  perfect  mountaineer,  this  faithful,  slow  moving,  un- 
hastening  servant  rarely  receives  his  due. 

There  is  a  fascination  in  such  a  steady  continued  onward 
march.  As  I  fell  into  the  swing  of  it  I  began  to  imagine 
myself  a  mere  cog  of  locomotion,  finally  becoming  so  fever- 
ishly impatient  of  any  break  in  the  advance  as  to  permit  only 
the  imperative  halts  at  noon  and  night — and  to  postpone 
them.  My  camera  swung  in  its  unopened  case,  my  carbine 
remained  sheathed,  leaving  the  camino  to  shoot  with  the 
small  rifle  was  forbidden.  Our  manner  of  life  becoming 
fixed,  fell  into  systematized  grooves.  With  the  break  of 
day  we  would  awake.  Wrapping  his  serapa  close  about  his 
shivering  shoulders,  Praemundi  would  start  forth  in  search 
of  the  grazing  burros  leaving  Jesus  to  make  a  small  fire  and 
prepare  breakfast.  After  dressing  myself,  performing  my 
ablutions  and  rolling  my  blankets  away  in  a  dunnage  bag,  I 
would  proceed  to  transfer  the  preceding  day's  entries  from 
pocket  notebook  to  journal.  Soon  Praemundi  would  ap- 
pear with  the  burros,  and  while  he  put  the  pack-saddles  on 
Cabrillo  and  Vapor,  Jesus  and  I  would  saddle  our  riding 


A  LONG  FORCED  MARCH 


227 


animals.  Then  sitting  together,  cross-legged  by  the  fire, 
we  would  eat  a  plain  breakfast  of  broiled  doves  or  **cotton- 
tair'  rabbit,  stewed  prunes,  boiled  rice,  hard-tack,  or  flour 
and  water  tortillas,  and  wild  honey.  My  mozos  drank 
strong  coffee,  water  sufficed  for  me.  On  the  Llanos  de 
Magdalena  and  in  such  other  localities  as  we  found  dense 
morning  mists,  Praemundi  took  his  coffee  before  going  in 
search  of  the  burros.  In  fact  he  lived  at  all  times  princi- 
pally upon  coffee.  Breakfast  concluded,  the  boy  would 
rinse  the  tin  dishes  while  Praemundi  and  I  stowed  the  sup- 
plies in  the  alforcas.  Then  the  two  would  pack  Cabrillo 
and  Vapor,  employing  a  sort  of  *'old  squaw"  hitch  with  the 
rope.  Meantime  I  would  strap  on  my  revolver,  slip  the 
cantinas  over  my  saddle  pommel  and  continue  my  journal 
work. 

**Li5to  caminando'^  (Ready  for  marching),  Praemundi 
would  sing  out,  presently.  With  a  responsive  ^^Bueno/'  I 
would  mount  my  burro,  and  slipping  my  journal  into  the 
cantinas,  ride  to  the  head  of  the  little  caravan.  The  animals 
once  in  their  gait,  I  would  dismount  and  walk  ahead  for  sev- 
eral hours.  These  walks  were  bracing  and  I  expect  Colon 
appreciated  my  taking  them.  They  certainly  kept  me  in 
revolver  practice;  for  I  would  invariably  find  a  rattlesnake 
or  two  stretched  across  the  camino.  Halting  at  midday, 
we  would  have  lunch,  first,  however,  unsaddling  and  turn- 
ing loose  the  animals.  Our  menu  would  be  dried  slabs  of 
beef  broiled  on  the  coals,  hard-tack,  boiled  rice  and  wild 
honey.  After  an  hour's  nooning  the  Mexicans  would  round 
up  the  burros  while  I  wrote  in  my  journal.  These  midday 
halts  would  occupy  between  one  and  two  hours'  time.  Again 
on  the  march  we  would  travel  until  six  or  eight  o'clock  at 
night,  camping  in  the  vicinity  of  feed  or  water,  or  both,  if 
possible.  Each  afternoon  I  walked  a  league  or  more  but 
Praemundi,  my  walking  mozo,  was  the  springy,  easy-gaited. 


228      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


high  class  pedestrian  of  our  party.  That  man  could  walk 
a  horse  to  death. 

As  soon  as  we  halted  for  the  night,  packs  and  saddles 
would  be  quickly  removed  from  the  burros  and  the  weary 
creatures  would  slip  away,  unhobbled  and  untied.  From 
the  necks  of  two  of  them  ropes  would  be  left  to  drag  and 
accentuate  their  trail.  In  grazing  they  kept  well  together. 
We  would  now  be  hungry  and  deadly  tired.  Again  we 
would  eat  broiled  dried  beef,  boiled  rice,  honey  and  tortillas, 
with  strong  coffee  for  the  Mexicans.  Supper  concluded, 
we  would  clear  of  stones  and  cactus  thorns  places  large 
enough  for  our  bodies  and  then  throw  down  our  blankets. 
For  two  months  I  had  rarely  pitched  my  tent.  During  the 
day  Jesus  or  I  would  have  shot  half  a  dozen  doves,  or 
perhaps  a  "cottontail,''  with  my  short-barreled,  single  shot 
.2  2  calibre  rifle  which,  for  the  most  part  he  carried  swung 
by  a  strap  from  his  saddle.  These  he  would  now  dress 
while  Praemundi  and  I  discussed  directions  for  the  follow- 
ing day.  Neither  of  us  had  ever  been  through  the  coun- 
try, though  he  had  traveled  along  the  Gulfo  Camino  years 
before  and  I  had  an  ancient  map,  that  was  fairly  accurate, 
and  two  modern  maps  that  partook  of  the  wonted  unrelia- 
bility of  Peninsula  California  interior  charts.  Soon  we 
would  all  stretch  out,  each  man  swathed  by  himself  like  a 
mummy.  Though  I  was  too  anxious  to  rest  well,  my  com- 
panions slept  soundly.  We  always  took  care  to  spread  our 
blankets  off  the  camino  itself,  for  at  night  it  would  become 
the  highway  for  "side-winders,"  mala  zoreas,  and  I  know 
not  what  other  evil  creatures  and  insects. 

Except  when  we  were  upon  the  Llanos  de  Magdalena,  all 
the  trails — and  many  of  them  were  ancient  caminos  of  the 
Padres — were  clogged  with  stones.  Even  on  these  plains 
bristling  sections  of  cholla  and  swaying  branches  of  pithaya 
amarga  retarded  travel.    Moreover,^  we  were  in  a  cattle 


A  LONG  FORCED  MARCH 


229 


country  where  cross  trails  and  by-paths  made  the  question 
of  which  was  the  main  camino  a  matter  of  frequent  debate. 
Early  one  morning  we  met  the  most  rapid  pedestrian  I  ever 
saw,  a  gaunt  Italian,  outward  bound  from  La  Paz.  Save 
for  a  long  dagger  and  a  canteen,  he  carried  no  luggage  or 
accoutrement.  His  haste,  his  business  or  his  lack  of  outfit 
were  no  affairs  of  ours,  but  his  tracks  served  to  advise  us  of 
the  camino.  Later  in  the  day  two  incidents  occurred  illus- 
trative of  the  farcical  Peninsula  misuse  of  the  word  camino^ 
which  is  supposed  to  signify  a  roadway.  Wondering  which 
to  follow,  we  had  halted  at  the  junction  of  half  a  dozen 
narrow  cow  paths,  when  Praemundi  pointing  to  the  least 
used  trail  exclaimed,  ^^Alli,  los  rastros  del  Italiano^^  (There, 
the  tracks  of  the  Italian.)  Jesus  at  once  dismounted  for  a 
close  examination.  Senor/^   he   announced  quietly, 

^^aqui  el  camino'^  (Yes,  sir,  here  is  the  highway.)  We  fol- 
lowed the  **highway."  Presently  a  young  "cottontail"  rab- 
bit darted  across  our  path,  some  rods  before  us.  When  we 
arrived  at  the  spot  where  the  little  fellow  had  crossed, 
Praemundi  paused  and  looked  critically  about.  '*Ah,"  he 
whispered  pointing  earnestly  toward  the  tiny  tracks  leading 
off  into  the  cacti,  '^alli  caminito  de  conejito.  Conejito  muy 
hueno  earned  (Ah,  there  is  the  little  highway  of  the  baby 
rabbit.    Baby  rabbit  excellent  meat.) 

Twice  we  fell  in  with  Rurales.  The  second  party  con- 
sisted of  an  officer  and  two  men.  After  giving  his  name 
and  rank — Carlos  Gonzales,  Captain  of  the  Gendarmes 
Federal — the  officer  inquired,  in  excellent  English  and  in  the 
most  courteous  manner,  by  what  authority  I  carried  a  car- 
bine and  side-arms. 

"Captain,"  I  replied,  formally,  for  I  realized  that  he  was 
acting  in  accord  with  the  regulations,  "I  am  in  your  country 
as  a  traveler  and  a  hunter  after  big  game.  I  am  traveling 
under  the  protection  of  a  Mexican  passport  and  of  one  from 


230     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

Washington.  Moreover,  I  have  a  formal  Mexican  permit 
to  carry  arms." 

assumed  as  much,  sir,"  he  replied,  **but  it  was  my  duty 
to  make  inquiry.    I  trust  your  travels  have  been  pleasant." 

'^Thank  you,  Captain  Gonzales,  they  have  indeed  been 
pleasant,"  I  replied.  **As  for  my  passports  and  permit 
they  are  here  in  my  cantinasJ^ 

'Turther  examination  is  needless.  I  have  your  word  and 
I  do  not  wish  to  hinder  you  further,"  he  replied.  Then, 
while  I  persistently  produced  the  documents,  he  addressed 
Praemundi  in  Spanish,  saying,  ^^Senor  you  may  meet  some  of 
my  men  along  the  camino.  We  are  searching  for  an 
offender.  Tell  them  that  I  have  said  that  your  patron  is 
not  to  be  molested." 

I  especially  appreciated  the  courtesy  of  the  Captain,  for 
having  been  upon  the  trail  so  long  I  looked  more  like  a 
contrahandista  or  a  desperado  than  a  peaceable  traveler. 
Fortunately  for  me  Captain  Gonzales  was  too  keen  an  offi- 
cer to  judge  by  appearances.  Had  he  officiously  detained  me 
as  a  suspicious  character  or  allowed  his  men  the  opportunity 
of  delaying  me,  my  plans  would  have  been  upset  entirely. 

Each  day  we  came  to  some  well  or  water-hole  close  by 
which  would  be  the  house  of  a  ranchero.  Although  these 
rancheros  controlled  all  the  way  from  a  thousand  to  a  hun- 
dred thousand  acres — the  area  of  one  grant  ran  into  the  mil- 
lions— their  houses  were  usually  mere  jacales,  or  huts  with 
thatched  roofs  and  stake-and-mud  walls.  The  limitations 
of  their  larders  accorded  with  the  poverty  of  their  homes. 
With  cheese,  dried  beef,  milk,  beans,  tortillas,  wild  honey, 
coffee  and  salt  on  hand  they  considered  themselves  well  pro- 
visioned. Many  of  them  were  without  coffee  or  panoche, 
while  flour  and  rice  were  luxuries.  Their  tortillas  they 
made  from  flour  crushed  on  metates.  Though  big  horn 
were  to  be  had  in  the  sierras  and  deer  and  countless  doves  in 


A  LONG  FORCED  MARCH 


231 


both  sierras  and  on  the  plains,  the  men  were  frequently 
without  ammunition  and  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  art  of 
trapping.  Every  rancho  would  support  flocks  of  goats  and 
herds  of  cattle  and  stock.  The  goats  were  held  at  two  and 
three  pesos  each,  burros  from  ten  to  twenty  pesos,  cows 
from  thirty  to  thirty-five,  horses  from  twenty-five  to  sixty- 
five,  and  mules  from  thirty  to  seventy-five  pesos. 

The  rancheros  and  their  sons  usually  wore  leather  leg- 
gins  and  in  riding  were  further  protected  from  thorns  by 
immense  flaring  leather  chaparejos.  The  Senoras  were  ex- 
tremely religious  and  many  of  the  younger  Senoritas  de- 
cidedly pretty.  Upon  one  rancho  I  found  a  widow  living 
alone  with  three  little  daughters,  the  guardians  of  her  flock 
of  goats.  Noting  the  clear  complexions,  graceful  bearing 
and  clear-cut  features  of  these  poor,  bare-footed  little  las- 
sies, I  wished  that  some  pastoral  poet  might  appear,  for 
surely  their  beauty  would  awaken  the  Muse.  The  vaqueros 
reported  lions  extremely  troublesome  in  the  sierras,  and  we 
saw  any  number  of  coyotes,  foxes  and  large  hawks.  At  one 
rancho  a  burly,  good-natured  Mexican  showed  me  the  heads 
of  three  lions  which  he  had  recently  slain  with  the  assistance 
of  his  perros  grandes  (big  dogs).  With  keen  regret  I  de- 
clined his  hearty  invitation  to  delay  and  hunt  with  him.  Not- 
withstanding their  impoverished  condition,  these  people 
were  universally  cordial,  selling  me  dried  beef  and  honey  at 
moderate  prices  and  expressing  deep  sympathy  with  my  anx- 
iety concerning  the  northern  disaster.  With  the  ^'adios^'  of 
parting  they  would  invariably  couple  a  wish  that  I  find  my 
^^familia  y  dinero^'  (family  and  money)  safe. 

In  the  sierras  our  route  followed  the  course  of  immense 
canons,  the  San  Xavier,  Las  Palmas,  Santa  Lucia,  Santa 
Cruz,  Guadalupe  and  Los  Reyes  Arroyos,  which  twisted 
about  until  I  again  and  again  put  aside  my  compass  in  abso- 
lute despair  of  keeping  accurate  record  of  directions.  Down 


232      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

upon  the  Llanos  de  Magdalena,  likewise,  our  course  was 
continually  placed  in  doubt  by  the  multitude  of  cattle  trails. 
Though  these  extensive  plains  are  arid  and  overgrown  with 
cacti,  were  they  cleared  and  watered  their  soil  would  prove 
productive.  The  appearance  of  this  country  is  desolate  and 
forlorn.  The  nights  are  foggy  and  the  days  stifling  hot. 
It  was  along  the  shores  of  the  great  Bay  of  Magdalena 
which  indents  these  plains  that  a  company  of  which  General 
Butler  was  the  president,  attempted  to  plant  a  colony  back 
in  the  early  seventies.  Hostility  of  the  local  government, 
coupled  with  mismanagement,  lack  of  water,  over-booming 
and  general  misrepresentation,  made  the  scheme  a  failure. 
lA  Boston  and  New  York  concern  now  controls  the  coast  line 
along  the  Pacific  from  latitude  twenty-three  degrees  thirty 
minutes  north,  to  the  twenty-ninth  parallel  of  north  latitude, 
with  an  inland  extension  of  fourteen  miles.  This  barren 
principality  contains  over  four  million  acres,  quite  a  farm. 

We  arrived  at  the  Rancho  of  Matancital,  the  local  head- 
quarters of  this  company,  the  evening  of  the  9th  of  May. 
The  moon  was  shining  brightly  as  I  halted  before  a  high 
fence  within  which  stood  a  well  lighted  frame  house,  the 
home  of  the  resident  manager,  W.  J.  Heney,  Esq.  Finding 
a  doorway  in  the  wall,  I  entered  and  strode  along  a  board 
walk  to  the  porch.  Pausing  before  an  open  doorway,  I  saw 
within  a  decidedly  blond,  wide-awake  looking  man  of 
thirty-two  or  three  engaged  in  conversation  with  a  handsome 
middle-aged  matron.  I  knocked  on  the  casing.  The  two 
looked  up,  the  lady  at  once  withdrawing. 

^'Buenos  noches,  Seiior/^  I  began,  unconsciously  employing 
the  Spanish  greeting. 

^'Buenos  noches/^  replied  the  blond  man,  surveying  me 
listlessly. 

^^^Ista  casa  se  de  Senor  Heneyf^  (Is  this  the  house  of 
Mr.  Heney?)  I  continued,  suddenly  possessed  with  a  curi- 


A  LONG  FORCED  MARCH 


233 


osity  to  see  whether  an  American  would  accept  me  as  a 
Mexican. 

'*Si,  Seiior/^  was  the  response,  in  a  deeply  bored  tone. 
^'^Sehor  Heney  aquif^  (Mr.  Heney  here?) 
''Si,  Seitorr 

'*Ta  bueno,  Senor  Heney.  Yo  tengo  una  carta  de  recom- 
mendacion  por  V'd,'^  I  continued.  Then,  unable  to  keep  up 
the  farce,  I  laughed  outright  and  added,  **When  my  burro 
train  comes  up,  I'll  yank  the  letter  out  of  my  cantinas.  Mean- 
time, North  is  my  name — I  am  an  American.  What  news 
have  you  from  San  Francisco?" 

**Ah,"  he  muttered,  with  a  quickly  drawn  breath  of  read- 
justment, thought  you  were  a  Mexican  official  come  to 
arrest  me  for  the  violation  of  some  new  stamp  act  of  the 
existence  of  which  I  had  not  as  yet  been  advised.  It  is  some 
little  time  since  my  last  arrest."  This  final  remark  he  made 
in  a  musing  tone.    **Come  in,"  he  added. 

I  entered,  mightily  glad  to  confer  with  a  fellow  country- 
man. We  chatted  together  until  midnight.  Of  the  north- 
ern situation  he  knew  little  more  than  I,  though  he  had  a 
notion  that  the  banks  in  San  Francisco  had  gone  under. 
The  following  day  I  saw  something  of  Matancital.  Trees, 
vines  and  vegetables  were  flourishing  under  irrigation  from 
a  twenty  thousand  gallon  cistern,  kept  overflowing  by  a 
steam  pump  which  forced  a  large  stream  from  a  well  in  a 
neighboring  arroyo.  Heney  presented  me  to  his  aunt — the 
matron  whom  I  had  observed — and  her  daughter.  The 
latter,  as  his  secretary  and  the  company's  bookkeeper — ac- 
counts are  required  to  be  kept  both  in  Spanish  and  English 
— has  her  time  well  occupied.  In  place  of  bemoaning  her 
exile,  this  young  lady  has  so  won  the  respectful  esteem  of 
the  Rancheros  and  Sefioras  in  the  vicinity  that  for  days  I 
had  heard  praise  of  her  knowledge  of  Spanish,  her  gracious- 
ness  and  her  bravery. 


234     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

Complimenting  her  upon  her  spirit,  I  said,  ''I  am  told 
that  you  have  spent  ten  days  at  a  time,  alone,  down  at  the 
island  residence,  a  revolver  strapped  to  your  waist/'  She 
smiled.  **Had  you  seen  me  one  noon  crouching  in  the 
shadow  of  a  cardon  on  the  Tepetates  Camino,  weakly  cry- 
ing because  I  was  tired,  you  would  not  have  thought  me  a 
heroine."  Knowing  that  modesty  and  spirit  are  close 
friends,  I  ceased  my  compliments.  I  was  to  hear,  again, 
however,  of  these  *Veak  tears."  They  were  shed  from 
sheer  exhaustion  in  the  midst  of  a  one  hundred  and  eighty 
mile  ride  which  she  made  in  three  days  and  a  half — and 
made  in  the  interest  of  others ! 

At  noon  on  the  loth  of  May,  the  Heneys  drove  down  to 
Magdalena  Bay,  a  few  miles  distant,  while  I,  enriched  by 
gifts  of  eggs  and  Mexican  hard-tack,  took  the  trail  for  La 
Paz,  fifty-six  leagues  distant.  When  twenty  leagues  slightly 
south  of  east  of  Matancital,  we  arrived  at  the  old  Jesuit 
Mission  of  San  Luis  Gonzaga,  founded  in  1740.  Though 
small  the  iglesia  is  well  ornamented  and  in  excellent  state  of 
repair.  The  subsidiary  mission  buildings  are  used  by  Don 
Benigno  de  la  Toba,  a  descendant  of  one  of  the  old  Cali- 
fornia Spanish  governors  and  the  proprietor  of  the 
Hacienda  or  Plantation  of  San  Luis.  Near  the  mission  we 
observed  an  extensive  red  brick  store,  the  most  imposing 
modern  private  building  in  Lower  California.  In  the  ab- 
sence of  the  Don,  we  were  cared  for  by  his  major  domo,  an 
old  Mexican  of  methodical  ways. 

At  dusk,  two  days  later,  we  met  Don  Benigno  on  the 
camino.  He  was  mounted  upon  a  splendid  animal  and  his 
dress  and  accoutrement  were  well  chosen.  Perhaps  he  was 
forty-five  years  of  age,  perhaps  a  trifle  more.  In  build  he 
was  rather  portly.  His  manners  and  bearing  were  those  of 
a  gentleman  accustomed  to  the  company  of  gentlemen.  After 
reading  a  letter  which  I  presented  to  him,  he  answered  my 


A  LONG  FORCED  MARCH 


235 


numerous  questions  with  extreme  affability.  His  hacienda 
contains  over  one  hundred  thousand  acres  of  land  and 
twenty  families  are  employed  in  its  care.  Barring  droughts 
that  at  times  afflict  the  country,  good  rains  can  be  counted 
upon  every  other  year.  On  his  property  he  has  had  over 
twenty  wells  dug,  water  being  found  at  an  average  depth  of 
thirty  metres. 

Though  no  hint  of  the  subject  was  given  by  either  of  the 
principals,  rancheros  assured  me  of  the  existence  of  a  bitter 
feud  between  Heney  and  Don  Benigno,  a  feud  which  has  in- 
creased with  the  continuance  of  legal  differences.  The 
situation  is  simple  enough.  Both  men  are  cattle  barons  and 
their  lands  adjoin.  It  is  a  case  of  worthy  foemen.  Heney 
IS  a  fighting  American,  of  the  same  blood  as  a  certain  noted 
prosecutor;  the  Don  comes  of  an  ancient  and  illustrious 
Spanish  family. 

Out  from  San  Luis  I  had  taken  the  Salto  Los  Reyes 
Camino,  a  trail  enriched  by  beautiful  scenery.  Deep  in  an 
arroyo  we  found  the  Salto  Los  Reyes,  the  Kings'  Leap,  a 
high  bluff,  crowned  with  a  pile  of  stones,  quarried  in  bygone 
days,  and  frowning  down  upon  two  shimmering  pools  of 
water  where  swallows,  doves  and  hawks,  side  by  side,  slack 
their  thirst.  It  is  a  royal  spot.  Out  from  the  very  heart  of 
the  cliff  comes  the  water,  clear  and  limpid.  Down  from  this 
sheer  cliff,  in  ancient  days,  'tis  said,  a  king  of  the  Guiacuras 
leaped,  close  followed  by  a  king  of  the  Pericues.  'Twas  a 
mighty  leap. 

As  the  sun  was  sinking  on  the  i6th  day  of  May,  a  weary 
little  party  made  camp  close  against  the  Gulf  shore,  just  be- 
yond the  Rancho  of  Arripaz  and  within  sight  of  the  capital 
of  the  Distrito  Sur.  Before  us  spread  the  lovely  Bay  of  La 
Paz,  calm  as  on  that  day,  nigh  four  centuries  gone  by,  when 
Cortez  there  found  shelter.  Whether  the  traditional  and 
published  tables  of  distances  were  correct  and  our  round- 


236      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

about  route  from  San  Xavier  had  taken  us  over  four  hun- 
dred miles  or  whether  my  lesser  figures  were  more  accurate, 
I  did  not  consider.  We  had  completed  a  long  forced  march 
on  time.    Another  day  would  end  suspense. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


LA  PAZ  AND  SOME  OTHER  PUEBLOS 

AS  the  sun  was  gilding  the  heights  of  the  Cacachilas,  I 
took  an  invigorating  plunge  into  the  Bay  of  La 
Paz;  three  hours  later,  my  outfit  corralled  hard  by 
the  outskirts  of  the  pueblo,  I  was  striding  along  the  wide 
streets  inquiring  the  way  to  the  Government  House.  A 
child,  an  aged  woman  and  a  muleteer  successively  and  indefi- 
nitely informed  me  that  it  faced  the  plaza;  then  a  soldier, 
clad  in  a  white  linen  uniform,  obligingly  accompanied  me  to 
the  very  portals  of  the  building.  At  the  proper  department 
I  made  inquiry,  of  a  courteous  and  stately  old  gentleman, 
for  Sr.  Coronel  Agustin  de  Sangines,  the  Jefe  Politico  of  the 
District.  His  Excellency  was  not  in,  I  was  informed. 
Would  I  see  his  Secretary?  I  would.  After  a  brief  delay 
another  most  affable  official,  Sr.  Arcadio  Villegras,  Secretary 
to  the  Jefe  Politico,  entered  from  an  adjoining  office  and, 
greeting  me  in  English,  said:  '^I  regret  exceedingly  that  His 
Excellency,  Coronel  Sangines,  is  not  in.  If  you  will  be  so 
gracious  as  to  accompany  me,  however,  you  will  find  mail 
which  you  are  doubtless  anxious  to  peruse." 

In  another  moment  I  was  seated  at  a  desk  in  a  private 
office  deep  in  a  packet  of  letters.  Though  I  have  read  since 
then  many  graphic  accounts  of  San  Francisco's  fire  and 
earthquake,  no  one  of  them  has  meant  as  much  to  me  as  did 
the  first  lines  of  a  brief  note  which  I  read  at  La  Paz.  It 
was  from  my  brother,  dated  at  San  Francisco,  April  21st, 
1907.    *Tours  of  the  4th  instant  duly  received,"  it  began. 

237 


238      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

Even  an  earthquake  could  not  upset  his  methodical  acknowl- 
edgment of  a  letter.  **None  of  us  are  injured.  I  should 
have  wired  you  but  lines  down  and  your  whereabouts  un- 
known. This  city  looks  like  Hell.  Banks  are  closed.  Hope 
you  are  well  and  that  quake  didn't  reach  you.  Better  come 
home  for  a  month." 

Stuffing  the  other  letters  into  my  pocket,  I  strode  out  into 
the  open  air,  smiling  and  at  peace  with  the  world.  After 
seventeen  days  of  continual  anxiety,  after  repeated  visions 
of  those  nearest  and  dearest  engulfed  in  flames  or  lying 
crushed,  **None  of  us  are  injured''  was  a  message  that  made 
life  worth  while  again.  My  eyes  once  more  noted  surround- 
ings. 

As  the  capital  of  the  Southern  District,  a  prominent  ship- 
ping port  and  the  seat  of  the  Gulf  pearl  industry.  La  Paz 
has  long  enjoyed  a  certain  prestige.  For  many  years  it  was 
the  most  populous  place  in  all  Lower  California.  Even  now 
its  numbers  are  on  the  increase,  exceeding,  in  the  aggregate, 
five  thousand.  It  aspires  after  the  ways  of  larger  cities, 
however,  and  loses,  thereby,  the  quaint  medievalism  that 
makes  delightful  such  pueblos  as  San  Ignacio  and  Comondu. 
I  will  not  express  an  opinion  as  to  whether  or  not  La  Paz 
has  acquired  due  compensation  for  her  loss.  Indeed,  I  am 
not  qualified  to  render  an  expert  opinion  on  the  subject.  To 
my  way  of  thinking  man  was  absurdly  stupid  when  he  in- 
vented cities.  I  could  enjoy  being  marooned  on  a  million 
acre  rancho  and  invariably  suffocate  when  I  am  thrown  into 
one  of  those  mighty  artificial  tread-mills  where  a  million 
mortals  irritably  rub  shoulders  against  one  another,  dully 
thinking  their  fretful  race  to  the  grave  is  living.  There- 
fore, I  may  as  well  hold  my  peace  on  the  subject  of  cities. 

However,  the  hundreds  of  tall  palm  trees,  the  blossom- 
ing gardens,  the  streets  lined  with  red-flowered  trees — the 
arhol  de  fuego — and  the  low,  flat-roofed  adobes  give  to  La 


LA  PAZ  AND  SOME  OTHER  PUEBLOS  239 

Paz  a  delightful  picturesqueness,  lying,  as  it  does,  hard  by 
the  beautiful  harbor.  In  this  and  in  its  historic  associations 
lay,  for  me,  the  greatest  charm  of  the  little  city.  Here 
whites  first  set  foot  in  the  Californias;  here  Cortez  attempted 
to  plant  a  settlement  full  seventy-five  years  ere  the  founda- 
tion of  Jamestown;  here  swaggering  buccaneers  congre- 
gated; here  landed  Alexander  Selkirk,  the  inspiration  for 
Robinson  Crusoe ;  here  were  quartered  American  troops  dur- 
ing the  Mexican  war ;  here  came  Walker  with  his  tall  young 
filibusters. 

After  my  early  call  on  officialdom,  I  strolled  about  the 
town,  admiring  the  gardens,  meeting  several  Americans  and 
finally  locating  an  excellent  hotel.  The  welcome  Curacao 
having  already  nosed  into  the  harbor,  a  ship's  boat  brought 
its  chief  officers  ashore.  The  purser,  a  big,  broad-shoul- 
dered, handsome  chap,  Byrd  by  name,  smiled  upon  me  rather 
quizzically.  **Guess  you're  my  man,"  he  exclaimed,  heart- 
ily. **We're  just  in  from  San  Francisco.  I've  got  letters 
and  instructions  to  cash  a  check  for  a  traveler  of  your  de- 
scription. Banks  at  home  all  closed  so  you  couldn't  draw 
on  'em  here.  Call  on  me.  We  return  on  the  twenty- 
second." 

After  this  encouraging  greeting  I  continued  my  tour  of 
the  town  with  increased  good  spirits.  In  a  very  brief  time  I 
discovered  that  the  community  was  in  the  throes  of  intense 
excitement  over  charges  preferred  against  one  of  the  resident 
foreign  consuls.  As  he  was  a  man  of  means  and  a  native  of 
La  Paz,  feeling  ran  high  and  I  had  a  difficult  time  explaining 
that  a  possible  game  of  tennis  and  an  inspection  of  the  local 
pearl  fisheries  appealed  to  me  more  than  discussing  a  con- 
sular matter  in  which  I  had  no  concern.  To  give  the  official 
credit,  he  made  no  mention  of  the  absorbing  topic.  After 
two  sets  at  the  nets  I  visited  a  factory  where  buttons  were 
being  made  from  pearl  oyster  shells.    The  pearl  fishery  re- 


240     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

glons  of  the  Guif  are  divided  among  three  concessionists, 
one  English  and  two  Mexican.  Yaqui  Indians  do  the  div- 
ing and  the  pearls  are  marketed  in  Europe.  According  to 
public  rumor,  one  of  the  Mexican  concessionists  was  far 
away  in  durance  vile  all  through  forgetting  some  ten  thou- 
sand dollars'  worth  of  pearls  when  making  his  declaration 
at  the  Customs  House  in  San  Francisco.  It's  strange 
how  the  atmosphere  of  a  custom  house  does  affect  the 
memory ! 

As  I  was  returning  to  the  hotel,  after  my  stroll,  I  met  a 
burly  individual  hurrying  along  with  an  immense  revolver 
protruding  belligerently  from  his  inside  coat-pocket.  He 
explained  to  a  resident  with  whom  I  chanced  to  be  walking 
that  he  was  avoiding  the  shedding  of  official  blood  by  keep- 
ing away  from  the  Governor.  When  I  met  the  latter,  as 
I  did  upon  calling  at  the  Government  House  later  in  the  day, 
I  decided  that  there  might  be  two  sides  to  the  blood-letting 
operation.  Sr.  Coronel  Sangines,  Territorial  Chief,  or 
'^Governor,"  is  a  swarthy,  keen-eyed,  middle-aged  officer, 
well  able  to  take  care  of  himself  and  perform  the  duties  of 
his  office.  Both  he  and  his  Secretary  treated  me,  a  visiting 
stranger,  with  extreme  civility.  The  latter  even  undertook 
a  wearisome  amount  of  research  to  place  at  my  disposal 
certain  historical  data. 

As  Lower  California  is  merely  a  territory,  each  of  its 
two  districts  are  in  charge  of  a  chief  executive  and  military 
officer,  a  federal  appointee,  formally  styled  the  Jefe  Politico 
y  Militar.  The  majority  of  the  local  federal  officials  have 
offices  in  the  Government  House,  an  imposing  structure  built 
around  a  court  where  soldiers  lounge  at  ease.  It  occupies 
a  block  facing  a  plaza  made  attractive  with  flowers  and 
shrubbery.  Upon  the  opposite  side  of  this  plaza  there  is  a 
large  church  with  adjacent  parochial  buildings.  On  visit- 
ing the  church  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Padre  Rosse, 


LA  PAZ  AND  SOME  OTHER  PUEBLOS  241 


an  agreeable  and  well  educated  Italian,  the  Superior  of  the 
Peninsula  Fathers. 

As  I  was  recrossing  the  plaza,  bound  hotelwards,  a  car- 
riage with  three  occupants  passed  slowly  by.  One  of  the 
three  I  recognized  instantly  as  a  classmate  of  university 
days.    ^^Hi,  there!''  I  called  out. 

^^Hello.  Who  is  it?"  he  answered.  *Why,  Great  Scott, 
old  man !  Say,  get  in  here  and  ride  with  us.  Heard  you 
were  somewhere  on  the  Peninsula.  This  is  my  wife — we 
,are  running  a  mine  down  at  Triunfo.    Come  visit  us.'' 

As  the  sequel  of  this  pleasant  meeting,  I  threw  my  saddle 
on  a  horse  the  following  day  and  rode  southward  eleven 
leagues  over  a  good  road  which  wound  gradually  up  into 
the  hills,  bringing  me  to  Triunfo,  a  pueblo  of  three  thousand 
inhabitants,  which  has  grown  up  about  the  ''Triunfo,"  or,  as 
they  are  now  termed,  the  'Trogresso"  gold  and  silver  mines. 
Like  Santa  Rosalia,  Triunfo  is  essentially  a  mining  town, 
quickened  by  foreign  capital  and  supervised  by  foreign 
brains.  There  all  similarity  ends,  however,  for  Triunfo  is 
less  cosmopolitan,  less  ready-made  and  far  more  attractive 
than  Santa  Rosalia.  Also,  it  is  older  and  smaller.  In 
addition  to  the  mining  plant,  with  its  tall  brick  chimneys, 
chugging  stamps,  cosy  residence — 'The  Hacienda" — and 
high  protecting  stone  wall,  grim  relic  of  revolutionary  days, 
Triunfo  boasts  a  rakish  looking  church,  intended,  primarily 
as  a  stable  for  the  racing  stud  of  a  sporting  mine  superin- 
tendent. I  spent  two  enjoyable  days  at  Triunfo  and  the 
neighboring  pueblo  of  San  Antonio  Real.  Not  being  techni- 
cally versed  in  mining,  however,  I  was  more  interested  in 
the  remarkable  precociousness  of  the  superintendent's  baby 
daughter  than  In  the  completeness  of  the  noisy  mills.  Ulti- 
mately the  little  toddler,  climbing  into  a  small  engine  used 
to  haul  ore  cars,  signified  her  intention  of  taking  us  "for  a 
long  ride,  fast'r  than  burro." 


242     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

The  ancient  village  of  San  Antonio  Real  lies  deep  down 
in  a  canon  a  league  to  the  southwest  of  Triunfo.  Here, 
early  in  the  eighteenth  century,  was  begun  the  first  mining, 
so  far  as  is  known,  ever  done  in  the  Californias.  In  the 
still  more  distant  days  of  Sir  Francis  Drake  and  Sir  Thomas 
Cavendish — the  merry  English  rover  who  sailed  blithely  up 
the  Thames  with  plundered  silk  spread  forth  for  sails — 
doughty  buccaneers  were  wont  to  harbor  at  Ventana  Bay,  a 
few  leagues  distant,  eastward  from  the  pueblo  site.  How 
imperiously  the  old  sea  gallants  must  have  strutted  about  in 
their  flapping  jack-boots;  how  their  sharp  eyes  must  have 
glittered  as  their  swift  barks  swooped  down  upon  some  luck- 
less and  richly  laden  Manila  galleon!  Even  during  the 
nineteenth  century,  southern  corsairs,  prowling  inland  from 
Ventana  Bay,  rifled  the  old  stone  mission  chapel  at  San  An- 
tonio of  its  ancient  golden  altar  ornaments  and  long  strings 
of  pearls. 

Making  the  trip  on  horseback,  I  visited  San  Antonio  Real 
in  company  with  a  genial  young  giant,  Hughes  by  name,  a 
veteran  of  the  Philippine  War.  We  returned  to  Triunfo 
by  a  steep  road  which  opend  about  us  a  magnificent  view  of 
the  Cacachilas.  These  sierras,  sharp  and  rugged  in  their 
outline,  attain  a  maximum  height  of  4,700  feet.  On  our 
arrival  at  *The  Hacienda"  we  found  Mrs.  Nahl,  my  class- 
mate's wife,  in  the  garden  with  a  college  flag. 

**Let  us  rejoice  in  our  colors,  gathering  together  the 
alumni,"  she  laughingly  exclaimed. 

**Everywhere  the  American  collegian,"  answered  Hughes, 
responsively.  **Think  of  four  of  us  with  the  same  Alma 
Mater  being  down  here  under  the  Southern  Cross!  Why, 
if  the  Pole  is  ever  discovered  and  an  ice  fence  built  about  it, 
there'll  be  a  bunch  of  collegians  sitting  on  the  top  rail  in  no 
time,  a-smoking  away  as  cool  as  you  please." 

*'My  new  engineer  is  a  California  man,  too,"  interposed 


LA  PAZ  AND  SOME  OTHER  PUEBLOS 


243 


Nahl,  who  had  joined  us.  **My  predecessor,  also,  came 
from  Berkeley;  Brookes,  first  manager  of  these  mines,  had 
a  son  who  went  to  New  Haven,  becoming  Yale's  fleetest 
Mott  Haven  sprinter.  We  must  certainly  have  a  picture 
here  under  the  bananas." 

The  ensuing  day  I  returned  to  La  Paz.  Before  visiting 
Triunfo  I  had  paid  my  mozos  the  amount  due  them,  where- 
upon Praemundi  had  immediately  hied  himself  to  a  cantino, 
or  drinking  saloon.  In  appreciation  of  his  marvelous  pe- 
destrianism,  I  had  also  presented  him  with  Vapor.  The 
other  burro  I  had  necessarily  sold,  though  parting  with 
plucky  Cabrillo  had  proven  a  truly  sharp  wrench.  Now 
Praemundi  appeared  before  me  in  a  state  of  cheerful  in- 
ebriation, begging  for  a  written  ratification  of  my  gift.  He 
was  penniless.  Indeed,  between  liquor  and  thieving  com- 
panions his  first  twenty-four  hours  in  La  Paz  had  cost  him 
forty  dollars.  Without  giving  thought  to  his  purpose,  I 
gave  him  the  desired  formal  bill  to  Vapor;  possessed  of  this 
instrument,  he  sold  the  faithful  animal  forthwith,  then  pro- 
ceeded to  spend  the  proceeds,  his  entire  worldly  capital, 
for  more  mescal. 

So  much  for  the  sober  burros  and  their  unfortunate 
packer.  Jesus,  for  his  part,  had  blossomed  out  in  new  ap- 
parel from  head  to  foot.  Indeed,  though  I  had  at  no  time 
given  especial  thought  to  his  looks,  I  now  laughingly  realized 
that  my  youthful  mozo  was  a  handsome  young  dandy. 

That  evening  four  of  us — two  Americans,  an  Englishman 
and  a  German — dined  together  at  the  hotel.  As  my  com- 
panions were  men  of  education  and  had  spent  years  on  the 
mainland,  I  listened  with  keen  interest  to  their  expressions 
concerning  the  vulnerable  characteristics  of  the  natives. 
Crystallized,  their  opinions  were  that  the  Mexican  lacks 
appreciation,  is  improvident,  a  hard  bargainer  and  unre- 
liable.   At  the  same  time  they  were  in  accord  in  admitting 


244     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


that  these  traits  might  be  subdued  by  a  continuation  of  the 
present  enlightened  and  progressive  administration  of  gov- 
ernment. In  reaching  their  conclusions  they  eliminated  the 
higher  classes  from  their  reckonings  and  referred  to  the 
brief  period  in  which  education  has  been  within  general 
reach  and  to  the  comparatively  recent  cessation  of  succes- 
sive civil  wars  as  extenuating  circumstances  to  be  con- 
sidered. 

After  supper,  to  enjoy  the  twilight,  we  sought  a  balcony, 
overlooking  the  Bay.  ^*See  those  couples,  trios  and  quar- 
tettes of  girls  promenading  up  and  down  the  long  wharf," 
remarked  the  American,  between  puffs  of  his  cigar. 

"Yes,"  I  assented.  'Tve  been  admiring  their  graceful, 
easy  carriage." 

'^They  belong  to  the  Primera  Clase  of  La  Paz.  It  is  a 
good  object  lesson  for  us  Gringos  to  reflect  on  their  freedom. 
In  our  country,  in  England,  on  the  Continent  a  dozen  men 
would  obtrude  upon  such  attractive,  unescorted  girls.  Here 
no  one  would  think  of  addressing  them  without  a  formal 
presentation." 

The  German  chuckled.  ^'There's  a  man  famine  in  local 
high  circles,"  he  remarked.  ''A  dozen  charming  Senoritas 
of  the  first  class;  only  two  eligible  men — and  of  the  two 
one  is  a  woman-hating  Judge,  the  other  a  stripling." 

*'La  Paz  must  occasionally  produce  men  children  of  the 
same  social  class  as  these  girls,"  I  demurred. 

"Certainly,"  interjected  the  Englishman,  "but  they  leave 
for  the  larger  business  fields  of  the  mainland.  These  proud 
Senoritas  then  await  their  return,  preferring  spinsterhood 
to  accepting  men  socially  in  a  lower  strata." 

The  following  morning  I  embarked  on  the  Curacao  for 
San  Francisco.  Two  leagues  down  the  Bay  of  La  Paz  we 
passed  the  sheltered  harbor  of  Pichilingue  where  Uncle 
Sam  maintains  a  coal  station  with  ten  or  twelve  thousand 


LA  PAZ  AND  SOME  OTHER  PUEBLOS 


245 


tons  of  coal  for  his  war  ships.  A  fine,  deep  harbor,  well 
sheltered  by  San  Juan  Nepomucino  Island,  it  derives  its 
name  from  having  been  a  pirate  cove  in  early  days.  Swing- 
ing off  across  the  Gulf  we  visited  Topolobampo,  Mazatlan 
and  other  mainland  ports,  at  each  of  which  we  took  on  Eng- 
lish and  American  mining  and  sugar  people,  most  of  them 
intent  on  looking  after  their  northern  bank  accounts,  for  San 
Francisco  is  the  Mecca  and  supply  point  for  the  entire  west 
coast  of  Mexico.  Recrossing  the  Gulf  we  cast  anchor  off 
San  Jose  del  Cabo. 

Here,  in  company  with  a  Scotch  traveler,  I  landed  on  a 
freighter  and  visited  the  pueblo,  a  mile  inland.  As  we  found 
two  rentable  mules,  the  distance  was  easily  covered.  San 
Jose  del  Cabo  is  a  charming  and  picturesque  pueblo,  with 
the  inevitable  mission  and  plaza,  many  sky-blue,  flat-roofed 
adobe  residences,  attractive  gardens,  rich  soil,  much  running 
water,  and  every  tropical  and  semi-tropical  fruit  conceiva- 
ble. It  has  a  population  of  sixteen  hundred  and  enjoys  a 
wonderful  climate.  Leaving  the  town  behind  us,  we  rode 
through  fields  of  sugar-cane  toward  Santa  Anita,  a  garden 
spot,  presumably  the  site  of  the  early  eighteenth  century 
Jesuit  Mission  of  San  Jose.  It  is  a  frequent  saying  down 
the  Peninsula  that  if  a  man  stops  a  week  at  San  Jose  del 
Cabo  he  becomes  a  *4otus  eater"  and  only  ropes  can  haul 
him  away.  It  certainly  is  a  dreamy  garden.  The  small 
boys  who  crowded  about  us  demanding  centavos  were  an 
evidence  of  foreign  visitors  for,  at  Rosario,  when  I  had  of- 
fered to  toss  pennies  for  several  small  children  who  had 
showed  me  the  mission  ruins,  the  youngsters  had  no  idea  of 
the  meaning  of  a  penny  scramble,  seeming  well  content  to 
hold  my  hand  and  walk  beside  me. 

Leaving  San  Jose  del  Cabo  and  rounding  Cabo  San  Lucas, 
we  bore  away  toward  San  Francisco,  1,160  miles  distant.  At 
Magdalena  Bay  we  made  a  brief  halt;  at  Ensenada  we  spent 


246     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


a  day;  and  then  we  steamed  northward  toward  the  Golden 
Gate. 

And  now,  before  proceeding  any  further  with  my  adven- 
tures, let  me  accord  a  full  chapter  to  the  strange  story  of  that 
superb  harbor,  Magdalena  Bay. 


At  anchor  off  San  Jose  del  Cabo 


CHAPTER  XIX 


THE  STORY  OF  MAGDALENA  BAY"^ 

O  an  American  looking  forward  to  the  completion  of 


the  Isthmian  Canal,  the  location  of  Magdalena  Bay 


is  startlingly  strategic.  Indenting  the  southwest 
coast  of  the  California  Peninsula,  distant  a  full  thousand 
nautical  miles  from  San  Francisco  on  the  north  and  over 
twice  that  distance  from  Panama  on  the  southeast,  this  in- 
frequently considered  port  is  the  only  great  anchorage  be- 
tween the  Golden  Gate  and  the  Isthmus.  To  conceive  of  its 
vastness,  picture  a  landlocked  sheet  of  water  fifteen  miles  in 
length  and  over  twelve  in  breadth !  But  even  then  the  con- 
ception is  incomplete,  for  the  actual  length  of  the  roadstead 
is  nearer  forty  miles  than  fifteen,  although  points  reaching 
shorewards  from  the  adjacent  Island  of  Santa  Margarita,  a 
long,  narrow  strip  of  land,  barren  and  of  volcanic  origin, 
divide  this  mighty  stretch  of  water  into  two  bays  of  which 
only  the  northerly  one  is  properly  referred  to  as  Magdalena 
Bay,  the  southerly  division  being  usually  called  Almaca,  or 
Almejas,  Bay.  The  old-time  whalers  termed  these  divisions 
Weather  and  Lee  Bays. 

The  formation  of  Magdelena  Bay  is  peculiar.  From  the 
peninsula  coast  at  the  north  headlands  jut  out  into  the  sea ; 
at  the  west  a  long  narrow  strip  of  land,  sometimes  called 
Man-of-War  Island,  parallels  the  Inequalities  of  the  shore 
line,  while  to  the  south  and  southwest  lies  the  Island  of  Santa 
Margarita.    By  practically  hemming  in  a  portion  of  the 


*  Reproduced,  in  part,  from  "Sunset  Magazine,"  March,  1908. 

247 


248      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


sea  these  successive  lands  form  the  harbor,  for  Magdalena 
Bay  does  not  deeply  indent  the  coast.  As  these  protective 
girders  are  lofty  enough  to  shelter  the  harbor  from  gales, 
they  served  in  older  days  to  conceal  buccaneers  and  smug- 
gling craft  from  chance  ships  of  the  Crown.  The  formal 
gateway  to  the  ocean  lies  betwen  the  northern  extremity  of 
Santa  Margarita  Island  and  Punta  Entrada,  the  southern- 
most point  of  the  so-called  Man-of-War  Island.  There  are 
additional  passages,  however,  for  lagoons,  fringed  with 
mangrove  shrubs,  run  northward  finally  opening  into  the 
Pacific — others  extend  inland — while  to  the  south  there  is 
easy  egress  through  Almaca  Bay. 

Pictured  in  an  earlier  chapter,  the  country  inland  from 
Magdalena  Bay  is  desolate  in  the  extreme.  First,  reaching 
from  the  shore  eastward  for  twenty  miles,  comes  a  barren, 
undulating  waste  of  sand  and  cactus.  Next  the  plains  sweep 
inland  with  an  upward  swell  for  another  twenty  miles,  finally 
wedding  with  the  hills  and  plains  which  stretch  down  from 
the  eastern  cordillera  of  the  Peninsula.  Save  for  the  mes- 
quite,  which  line  the  broad,  shallow  arroyos — occasional 
scars  on  the  interminable  desert — the  face  of  the  country  is 
veiled  entirely  with  cacti.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  region.  The 
ground  is  parched.  The  days  are  stifling  hot.  Great  waves 
of  fog  roll  in  during  the  nights,  effectually  shrouding  the 
country  in  the  mornings.  Until  he  has  proceeded  inland 
from  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  to  two  hundred  and  sev- 
enty-five miles  from  the  bay,  the  chance  wayfarer  need  have 
no  thought  of  finding  the  fertile  district  along  which,  strung 
out  in  the  form  of  a  crescent,  lies  the  historic  mission  sites 
of  Todos  Santos,  La  Paz,  Dolores  del  Sur,  San  Xavier, 
Comondii  and  Purisima. 

The  history  of  Magdalena  Bay,  a  story  never  yet  knit  to- 
gether, is  dashed  with  the  wild  flavor  of  the  romance  of 
centuries.    Its  theme  is  ever  thirst,  thirst.    First  visited  by 


THE  STORY  OF  MAGDALENA  BAY 


249 


Europeans  in  the  days  of  Cortez,  in  various  centuries  the 
gathering  place  of  voyagers  from  the  Spanish  Main,  gal- 
leons from  the  Philippines,  buccaneers  from  England  and 
the  Netherlands,  American  filibusters  and  whalers  from  a 
dozen  ports,  less  than  forty  years  ago  the  favored  property 
of  a  powerful  New  York  syndicate  presided  over  by  General 
John  A.  Logan  and  financed  by  Belmont  and  Jerome,  to-day 
the  magnificent  harbor  looks  out  upon  desolate  shores  un- 
known to  the  world.  With  few  shoals,  sheltered  from  gales, 
this  noble  expanse  of  water,  spacious  enough  to  accommo- 
date the  navies  of  all  nations  and  be  heedless  of  their  pres- 
ence, this  grim  bay  of  the  southwest  nevertheless  counts  an 
incoming  sail  an  event.  The  explanation  is  thirst,  thirst. 
For  every  man  who  has  ever  visited  the  shores  of  this  su- 
perb, ill-starred  bay  has  felt  the  want  of  water,  water. 

First  came  Francisco  de  Ulloa,  a  resolute  Spanish  ad- 
miral outfitted  by  Cortez.  In  serious  search  for  the  rich 
pearl  island  of  Ciguatan  where  charming  Amazons  were 
supposed  to  live  in  sovereign  state,  de  Ulloa  coasted  along 
the  shores  of  peninsula  California,  discovering  successively 
the  Colorado  River  and  Magdalena  Bay.  To  the  port  he 
came  at  Christmas  time  in  the  year  1539,  but  though  he  fell 
a-foul  of  warlike  savages  he  could  get  no  sight  of  pearl- 
bedecked  Amazons  or  of  living  springs  of  water.  And  for 
lack  of  the  last  he  mourned  the  deepest. 

In  the  wake  of  de  Ulloa  sailed  Juan  Cabrillo.  In  his 
ship's  log,  under  date  of  July  18,  1542,  appears  this  early 
notice  concerning  Magdalena  Bay,  **this  is  a  good  port  and 
it  is  sheltered  from  west  winds;  but  it  has  not  water  or 
woody  Later  came  the  restless  pilot  Viscaino.  But  he, 
too,  found  little  water.  **They  could  get  no  intelligence  of 
any  water,"  wrote  his  chronicler,  **except  in  a  cavity  among 
the  rocks,  and  what  they  had  there  was  excessively  bad." 

After  Viscaino's  visit  occasional  Spanish  galleons,  Isth- 


250     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


mus  bound  from  the  Philippines,  sought  the  shelter  of  the 
great  harbor,  and  graceless  Dutch  and  English  buccaneers 
followed  close  at  their  heels.  In  the  sands  southward  to- 
ward Cape  San  Lucas  lie  buried  the  surplus  riches  of  many 
a  ravished  treasure  ship. 

Thus  passed  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries.  In 
the  eighteenth  the  fearless  Jesuit  padres  sought  a  mission  site 
overlooking  Magdalena  Bay.  But  even  these  intrepid  ex- 
plorers retreated  from  its  thirsty  shores,  content,  perforce, 
with  the  foundation  of  San  Luis  Gonzaga,  nigh  fifty  miles 
inland  and  the  nearest  of  the  links  of  their  extensive  mission 
chain. 

Finally  with  the  opening  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the 
bay  region  experienced  surprising  prosperity  in  consequence 
of  becoming  the  center  of  an  active  smuggling  trade  between 
the  dwellers  by  the  missions  and  voyagers  from  Europe  and 
the  United  States.  This  free  trade  was  the  outgrowth  of  a 
commercial  embargo  enacted  by  Spain  during  the  Na- 
poleonic wars.  With  mules  and  donkeys  laden  with  hides, 
occasional  furs  and  pearls,  fruits  and  honey,  the  natives 
wended  their  way  from  the  missions  toward  Magdalena 
Bay.  In  the  lagoons  they  would  find  expectant  sailors  await- 
ing them  with  long  boats  freighted  with  woven  stuffs,  trink- 
ets and  the  like,  acceptable  articles  for  exchange.  It  was  a 
thirsty  business.  The  Californians  prepared  for  it  by  bring- 
ing with  them  well  filled  leather  water-bottles,  while  the 
sailors  supplied  themselves  with  an  inferior  quality  of  the 
liquid  by  sinking  barrels  in  the  sand,  then  stoving  in  the  bar- 
rel heads  and  waiting  for  the  seepage.  The  proceedings 
were  enlivened  by  cordial  exchange  of  native  mescal  and 
ship's  grog. 

For  a  third  of  a  century  this  contraband  trade  flourished 
to  the  great  joy  of  the  natives  and  the  immense  advantage  of 
shipping  houses  engaged  in  Pacific  commerce.  Finally, 


THE  STORY  OF  MAGDALENA  BAY 


251 


with  the  diversion  of  the  famous  Pious  Fund,  and  the 
achievement  of  Mexican  independence  and  the  passage  of 
the  Secularization  Acts,  came  the  decadence  of  the  missions 
and  the  consequent  ending  of  the  halycon  days  of  the  Mag- 
dalena  Bay  contrabandistas. 

But  visitors  of  higher  repute  began  shortly  to  frequent 
the  great  harbor,  for  nations  were  not  blind  to  its  possible 
strategic  importance.  In  the  late  thirties  and  early  forties 
Admiral  Du  Petit-Thouars,  Captain  Sir  Edward  Belcher 
and  Captain  Kellett  successively  investigated  Magdalena 
Bay.    They  reported  it  accursed  by  thirst. 

Shortly  before  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  the 
bay  region  experienced  its  second  period  of  prosperity  for  a 
veritable  fleet  of  whalers,  sealers  and  guano  gatherers  made 
it  the  center  of  their  operations.  New  England  whalers, 
alone,  were  soon  coining  over  a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars 
annually,  from  whales  taken  along  the  shores  of  the  Penin- 
sula. Magdalena  Bay  rejoiced  in  the  doubtful  honor  of 
being  the  favorite  spot  for  *^trying  out"  the  oil. 

In  the  midst  of  these  doings  came  the  Mexican  War. 
This  was  in  1847-48.  Upon  its  outbreak  Commodore  Sel- 
fridge  landed  a  body  of  marines  and  two  companies  of  New 
York  volunteers  at  La  Paz,  one  hundred  and  seventy  miles 
to  the  southeast  of  the  great  harbor.  Late  in  1848  these 
troops  were  withdrawn. 

Five  years  later  Filibuster  Walker  anchored  with  his  bark 
the  Caroline,  in  Magdalena  Bay;  subsequently  he  passed  the 
same  harbor  while  en  route  to  Nicaragua  and  the  culmina- 
tion of  his  career. 

Undisturbed  by  these  various  historic  events  the  whalers 
and  sealers  continued  to  make  the  bay  their  general  head- 
quarters. But,  despite  its  remoteness  even  this  region  was 
destined  to  become  a  pawn  In  the  political  game.  The  first 
move  was  made  In  the  early  sixties,  when  General  Juarez, 


252     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


hard  pressed  by  Maximilian,  shrewdly  conveyed  to  an  Amer- 
ican syndicate  a  large  slice  of  Lower  California  territory, 
including  the  section  about  Magdalena  Bay.  In  1867  the 
syndicate  engaged  the  late  J.  Ross  Browne  to  examine  its 
bargain. 

In  the  course  of  his  work  Browne  made  this  entry  in  his 
journal:  "Proceeding  close  along  the  shore  of  Magdalena 
Bay  some  two  or  three  miles  toward  the  heads,  we  came  to 
a  plateau  or  mesa,  apparently  formed  by  nature  as  the  site 
for  a  town.  The  extent  of  the  mesa  is  about  two  miles  in 
depth  by  three  in  width.  Probably  a  better  point  could  not 
be  selected  for  a  naval  depot." 

But  though  impressed  by  the  magnificence  of  the  bay  and 
Its  availability  for  naval  purposes  and  charmed  by  the  salu- 
brity of  its  climate,  Browne  reported  adversely  as  to  adapta- 
bility of  the  adjacent  lands  for  agricultural  purposes. 
**Until  within  two  weeks  of  our  visit,"  he  wrote,  "It  was  said 
by  one  person  near  the  bay  that  rain  had  not  visited  this  re- 
gion for  fourteen  years."    Thirst,  thirst,  always  thirst! 

However,  August  Belmont,  Leonard  W.  Jerome,  Ben 
Butler,  Wm.  G.  Fargo,  Ben  HoUaday,  Caleb  Gushing,  John 
A.  Garland  and  John  A.  Logan,  the  active  spirits  of  the 
syndicate,  were  not  men  of  a  type  to  be  deterred  by  a  mere 
report.  Accordingly  Baron  Philippe  de  Rougemont,  a 
noted  French  engineer,  was  engaged  to  map  and  survey  the 
country  about  Magdalena  Bay  while  a  large  party  of  pio- 
neers were  sent  into  the  interior  to  dig  wells,  build  roads  and 
clear  the  ground.  By  May,  1871,  it  was  reported  that 
there  were  five  hundred  settlers  located  about  Browne's 
*'town-site."  But  these  newcomers  were  oppressed  by  their 
surroundings,  the  fear  of  thirst  came  upon  them  and  they 
fled  the  country. 

Meantime  the  Mexican  government  had  annulled  the 
grant  and  Its  officials  had  pounced  upon  the  colony,  dispos- 


THE  STORY  OF  MAGDALENA  BAY  253 

sessing  its  local  agent.  These  latter  proceedings  caused  the 
U.  S.  S.  Saranac  to  hasten  to  the  rescue.  By  this  time  Gen- 
eral Butler,  who  had  become  president  of  the  syndicate,  be- 
gan complaining  after  his  own  peculiar  fashion.  So  alarm- 
ing was  his  roar  that  the  Mexican  government  offered  a  com- 
promise by  which,  as  a  salve  to  his  injured  feelings,  the  syn- 
dicate was  accorded  the  privilege  of  gathering  orchilla  for  a 
period  of  six  years.  This  orchilla  is  a  lichen  which  grows 
on  the  stems  and  branches  of  the  shrubs  and  cacti  along  the 
coast  of  the  Magdalena  Bay  region.  In  appearance  it  re- 
sembles drooping  tufts  of  gray  moss.  Dyes  of  valuable 
properties  are  produced  from  orchilla. 

In  1874,  and  prior  to  the  expiration  of  the  Butler  exten- 
sion, there  appeared  In  Magdalena  Bay  the  U.  S.  S.  Narra- 
gansett,  a  vessel  engaged  in  the  survey  of  the  west  coast  of 
Mexico.  This  important  undertaking  had  been  confided  to 
the  commander  of  the  Narragansett,  a  quiet  young  naval 
officer  by  the  name  of  George  Dewey.  According  to  the 
1880  report  of  the  U.  S.  Hydrographic  Office,  compiled 
from  data  gathered  by  Commander  Dewey,  it  would  appear 
that  the  American  Jackies  found  the  water  problem  at  Mag- 
dalena Bay  as  vexing  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  the  Spanish 
navigators.    Says  this  report: 

*'In  the  summer  season  the  only  regular  supply  of  fresh 
water  is  obtained  about  40  miles  from  the  bay,  near  one  of 
the  northern  lagoons.  Small  vessels  make  regular  trips  for 
the  express  purpose  of  bringing  it  to  the  settlement. 
At  the  time  of  the  Narragansetfs  visit  there  were  about  ten 
houses  near  the  beach  on  the  west  side  of  Man-of-War 
Cove,  one  of  which  was  used  as  a  Custom  House  and  the 
others  chiefly  occupied  by  men  engaged  in  collecting  and 
shipping  orchilla.  .  .  Magdalena  Bay  is  one  of  the 
most  spacious  and  safe  harbors  in  the  world." 

A  decade  after  the  visit  of  these  naval  surveyors,  a  Cali- 


254     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


fornia  company  secured  a  grant  of  land  adjoining  the  bay. 
Probably  to  their  own  surprise  as  much  as  any  one's,  these 
new  speculators  made  a  fortune  from  the  concession.  This 
came  through  unusually  large  crops  of  orchilla  which 
brought  to  the  bay  region  a  third  period  of  prosperity. 
Subsequently  the  concessionists  transferred  to  a  Boston  and 
New  York  syndicate  the  Magdalena  Bay  grant  which  may 
be  described  as  a  four  million  acre  farm  embracing  a  belt 
of  land  reaching  fourteen  miles  inland  from  the  bay  and 
extending  along  the  coast  north  and  south  some  hundreds  of 
miles.  Though  this  grantee,  at  least  in  1906,  gave  small 
heed  to  orchilla,  it  developed  a  fine  well  at  Matancita,  with 
a  cistern  and  a  steam  pump  capable  of  supplying  many  thou- 
sand gallons  per  day.  Matancita,  the  local  headquarters  of 
this  immense  rancho,  lies  immediately  to  the  north  of  one 
of  the  northern  lagoons. 

Though  these  commercial  matters  have  been  mere  inci- 
dents to  Magdalena  Bay,  bringing  with  them  no  steady  rush 
of  settlers,  they  have  had  their  immediate  bearing  on  recent 
events.  Commander  Dewey,  become  an  Admiral,  was 
thoroughly  conversant  with  the  entire  west  coast  of  Mexico; 
he  knew  that  with  abundant  water  at  Matancita  Magdalena 
Bay  was  useful.  Presently,  therefore,  through  the  courtesy 
of  Mexico,  the  United  States  was  accorded  the  privilege  of 
sending  her  men-of-war  to  the  great  harbor  for  target  prac- 
tice. Since  then,  at  periodic  intervals,  the  resplendent 
fighting  machines  of  the  White  Navy  have  glided  into  Mag- 
dalena Bay,  their  grim  cannon  breaking  the  calm  of  the 
silent  waters  and  rousing  the  echoes  above  the  rugged  shore. 
Thus  again  the  bay  has  awakened  to  such  life  as  it  had  not 
known  since  the  passing  of  the  contrahandistas  and  whalers; 
only  now  it  is  a  less  continuous  and  more  superb  manner  of 
living. 

Though  the  modern  visitor  to  this  ancient  harbor  is  im- 


THE  STORY  OF  MAGDALENA  BAY  255 


pressed  by  the  magnificent  expanse  of  its  waters,  the  clear- 
ness of  the  atmosphere  and  the  absence  of  commerce,  he 
finds  its  shores  practically  deserted.  The  only  settlement  is 
at  Man-of-War  Cove  where  there  are  some  seventy-five 
Mexicans,  a  handful  of  them  port  officials,  the  others  en- 
gaged in  turtle  fishing  and  the  gathering  of  abalone  shells. 
Immediately  inland  there  are  no  residents,  except  the  local 
manager  of  the  American  grant  with  his  vaqueros  and  their 
families,  forming  the  small  cluster  of  houses  at  Ma- 
tancita. 

Magdalena  Bay  has  little  inland  intercourse.  In  fact  the 
region  is  not  rich  in  roads.  From  Matancita  trails  run 
north  to  the  beautiful  valley  of  prosperous  Comondii,  and 
south  to  the  gardens  of  Todos  Santos  and  thence  to  La  Paz 
or  San  Jose  del  Cabo.  But  on  these  caminos  there  are 
stretches  where  water-holes  are  forty  miles  apart.  San 
Luis,  to  the  east,  is  the  junction  of  many  of  these  trails, 
relics  of  mission  days,  which  wind  through  the  sierras  and 
across  the  plains  with  springs  or  water-holes  every  twenty 
miles  or  so.  Corrals  and  shacks  of  rancheros  mark  these 
oases. 

Despite  their  impoverishment  the  rancheros  are  an  hos- 
pitable, kindly  people.  But  though  careless  of  the  mountain 
lions  that  deplete  their  flocks,  and  heedless  of  rattlesnakes 
and  tarantulas,  they  have  an  inherent  dread  of  the  Plains 
of  Magdalena.  **The  shores  of  the  great  bay  are  accursed 
by  God,"  they  say,  **and  therefore  many  men  have  died  in 
the  region  after  the  Devil's  favorite  fashion  of  taking  them 
off,  and  that  is  by  thirst,  thirst,  THIRST." 

I  believe  this  dread  is  contagious.  And  yet,  after  ascer- 
taining what  slight  labor  has  sufficed  to  develop  the  verdant 
huertas,  or  gardens  and  orchards,  at  Matancita  and  about 
the  wells  on  Don  Benigno's  Hacienda,  the  traveler  is 
disposed  to  conclude  that  the  curse  might  have  been  lifted 


256     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

these  many  moons,  except  for  the  glaring  lack  of  system  and 
energy  which  seems  to  have  characterized  the  various 
schemes  to  develop  the  Magdalena  Bay  region. 


Part  III 
LA  FRONTERA  AGAIN 


CHAPTER  XX 


A  FRONTIER  BALL  AND  AGAIN  THE  SIERRAS 

EARLY  in  July  I  was  again  in  Ensenada,  having  had, 
in  the  meantime,  a  glimpse  of  San  Francisco.  En- 
senada is  a  rather  recent  American-Mexican-English 
built  town  with  a  population  of  fifteen  hundred,  a  delightful 
climate  and  a  beautiful  situation  above  the  curved  white 
beach  of  Todos  Santos  Bay.  It  is  at  once  the  headquarters 
of  an  English  colonization  company  and  the  seat  of  govern- 
ment of  the  Northern  District  of  Lower  California.  Six 
months  earlier,  on  Christmas  evening,  just  before  entering 
the  country  of  the  Catarina  Yumas,  Juan,  my  two  Ameri- 
can friends  and  I  had  reached  the  town  in  time  for  a  late 
and  well  appreciated  dinner  at  the  foreign  hotel.  We  had 
at  that  time  come  overland  from  Tia  Juana.  The  next  day 
I  had  observed  two  usual  signs  of  English  occupation,  golf 
links — rather  neglected — and  a  portable  tub ! 

After  leaving  Magdalena  Bay  in  the  Curacao,  I  had 
visited  Ensenada  a  second  time  and  been  introduced  to  the 
**Governor''  of  the  District,  Sr.  Coronel  Celsa  Vega,  a 
courteous,  well  groomed,  rather  good  looking  individual. 
Now,  in  July,  my  list  of  local  acquaintances  was  extended  to 
the  Post  Master,  to  Sr.  Luis  Fernandez,  of  the  Customs 
House,  and  his  associate,  the  Collector,  to  Sr.  Oymart,  a 
most  obliging  local  merchant,  and  to  various  other  gentle- 
men. Without  exception  they  showed  me  most  generous 
consideration. 

Indeed,  whatever  his  shortcomings,  the  civility  of  the 

259 


26o     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


average  Mexican  is  superb.  He  inherits  it  from  his  Span- 
ish forefathers,  he  acquires  it  at  his  mother's  knee,  he  learns 
it  at  school.  In  January,  Eloisa,  the  pretty  child  of  the 
Senor  of  San  Vicente,  showed  me  her  Mexican  primer  and 
this  was  the  first  lesson  therein:  ^'Albert's  mamma  gave  Al- 
bert a  piece  of  cake.  Albert,  greedy  boy,  without  a  word 
began  eating  the  cake.  Albert's  mamma  took  the  cake 
away  and  gave  it  to  the  cat.  The  cat  said  'Meow,  meow' 
(Thank  you,  thank  you.)  Albert's  mamma  thereupon  gave 
the  cat  a  second  piece  of  cake." 

With  such  training  is  it  at  all  surprising  that  the  Mexican 
is  an  individual  of  rare  politeness? 

The  evening  of  the  ninth  of  July,  after  bidding  my  new 
acquaintances  good-bye,  I  returned  to  the  St.  Denis,  a  small 
coasting  steamer  on  which  I  had  come  to  Ensenada,  and  the 
anchor  hoisted,  we  turned  southward.  The  following  after- 
noon I  disembarked  at  San  Quintin,  possessed  of  vividly 
amusing  recollections  of  previous  adventures  in  the  little 
pueblo — and  with  liberal  expectancies  of  additional  experi- 
ences to  be  had.  I  was  not  disappointed.  After  dispatch- 
ing a  messenger  southward  for  my  former  mozo,  Timoteo, 
and  for  the  now  recuperated  Pedro  Ximenez — having  given 
out  months  before,  he  had  been  left  at  Rosario — I  took 
notice  of  the  people  about  me. 

Some  fifteen  or  sixteen  men  had  landed  from  the  steamer, 
two  of  them  being  accompanied  by  their  wives,  plucky,  un- 
obtrusive women.  The  entire  company  seemed  interested 
in  mining,  either  as  promoters  or  investors.  For  the  most 
part  they  were  wide-awake  Americans,  with  just  a  leavening 
of  well-bred  young  Englishmen.  Immediately  after  our 
landing,  activities  focussed  about  a  frame  building,  part 
Customs  House,  part  hotel  and  altogether  the  largest  struc- 
ture in  San  Quintin.  Here  I  again  met  Sr.  Victoria,  now  in 
charge  of  the  Customs,  here  I  found  two  hustling,  agreeable 


A  FRONTIER  BALL  AND  AGAIN  THE  SIERRAS  261 


Americans,  sometime  whalers  and,  according  to  ever  uncer- 
tain rumor,  smugglers  as  well,  now  peaceful  storekeepers 
and  proprietors  of  the  hotel. 

But  the  first  individuals  that  I  especially  noted,  as  I  grew 
observant,  were  two  swarthy  fellows  with  the  treading-high 
air  of  those  homeward  bound  and  well  pleased  thereat.  I 
made  their  acquaintance  forthwith.  They  were  scientific 
men,  just  in  from  Cedros  Island  where  they  had  been  col- 
lecting for  Harvard  University  and  the  John  Thayer  In- 
stitute. Until  their  departure,  via  the  northward  bound 
St.  Denis  on  the  12th  instant,  we  passed  the  time  pleasantly, 
even  enjoying  several  close  bridge  games  with  one  of  the 
Englishmen  as  fourth  man.  My  attention  was  also  early 
drawn  toward  an  elderly,  quiet-mannered  wanderer.  As 
he  proved  to  be  a  miner  just  in  from  four  months'  prospect- 
ing on  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra,  whither  I  was  bound,  I 
questioned  him  freely.  He  was  a  kindly  old  hermit,  ready 
to  laugh  heartily  over  the  recollection  of  his  chilly  spring 
near  the  snow  line  and  his  panic  in  March  when  awakened 
by  a  severe  earthquake.  Of  the  general  topography  of  the 
sierra  he  was  frankly  ignorant.  In  fact,  though  the  store- 
keepers and  several  of  the  local  residents  had  hunted  or 
mined  on  its  southern  and  western  slopes  none  of  them  knew 
it  as  a  whole.  Moreover,  as  it  was  unsurveyed  and  un- 
charted, people  who  ventured  upon  it  would  surely  get  lost. 
So  insistently  did  they  make  this  declaration  that  my  interest 
in  the  not  infrequently  visited  Sierra  was  increased  imme- 
diately. If  there  was  a  fair  chance  of  getting  lost  in  such 
a  region  of  game  and  water,  I  was  anxious  for  my  chance, 
for  to  be  lost  under  such  circumstances  would  surely  be 
fascinating. 

On  the  St.  Denis  I  had  met  an  energetic,  vivacious  pro- 
moter. Brown  by  name,  a  man  long  associated  with  the 
Northern  District,  and  one  whose  very  vitality  made  him 


262      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


interesting.  Through  his  initiative,  keenly  seconded  by  one 
of  the  proprietors  of  the  store,  a  baile  grande,  or  grand  ball, 
was  given  the  evening  of  the  loth.  The  scene  of  the  func- 
tion was  the  hotel  dining-room.  At  San  Ignacio  and  other 
southerly  pueblos  I  had  attended  bailes,  but  this  one  was  a 
more  cosmopolitan  affair,  not  unlike  an  American  frontier 
social  event.  The  dancers  consisted  of  eight  Senoritas,  two 
American  women,  wives  of  San  Francisco  **refugees'' 
stranded,  Heaven  knows  how,  at  San  Quintin;  a  dozen 
American  and  English  mining  men,  five  Mexicans,  the  scien- 
tists and  myself.  A  wheezy  phonograph  provided  music, 
while  beer  and  mescal  were  on  hand  for  the  thirsty.  A  na- 
tive audience  of  mothers  and  babies,  grandmothers  and  lit- 
tle children,  sat  on  chairs  and  benches  close  against  the  wall 
and  in  blissful  content  silently  enjoyed  the  succeeding  hours. 

The  women  dancers  were  dressed  in  simple,  attractive 
gowns,  but  the  English  and  American  men  were  laughable 
to  behold.  A  stocky,  middle-aged  mine  owner,  wearing 
great  goggles  over  his  small,  near-sighted  eyes,  presented 
himself  attired  in  a  black  frock  coat,  very  baggy  khaki  rid- 
ing bags,  gaiters — and  no  stockings !  Two  of  the  English- 
men wore  dark  green  puttees,  swathed  close  about  their 
bulging  calves,  while  three  of  us  Americans  appeared  In  rid- 
ing clothes  with  leather  leggins  and  heavy  shoes.  It  was  a 
bizarre  scene.  Here  a  handsome  young  mining  engineer  glid- 
ing over  the  floor  with  a  swaying,  graceful  little  muchaha, 
his  thoughts  perhaps  harking  back  to  some  collegiate  cotil- 
lon; there  an  erect  young  Britisher,  with  Oxford  yet  fresh 
in  mind,  soberly  footing  the  mazes  of  a  rollicking  waltz 
and  primly  holding  at  arm's  length  a  brown  little  muchacha, 
all  a-fire  with  the  excitement  of  her  first  baile  grande;  here  a 
sturdy  American  miner  galloping  with  a  swarthy  Senorlta, 
her  flashing  eyes  and  striking  features  betokening  Apache 
ancestry;  there  a  Harvard  scientist,  bravely  seeking  to  de- 


A  FRONTIER  BALL  AND  AGAIN  THE  SIERRAS  263; 


spoil  a  native  dandy  of  half  a  dance.  One  of  the  American 
refugees  and  three  of  the  little  Senoritas — mere  girls  of 
fourteen — were  really  excellent  dancers,  far  and  away  above 
the  others,  and  for  their  favors  there  sprang  up  a  gay  rivalry 
between  a  young  English  mine  owner,  an  American  mining 
expert,  one  of  the  scientists  and  myself.  Furthermore,  each 
of  the  little  Senoritas  had  a  particular  native  cavalier,  vainly 
claiming  monopoly  and  effervescing  with  frenzied  jealousy 
at  sight  of  our  attentions. 

At  midnight  heaping  baskets  of  cascarones  (blown  eggs, 
stuffed  with  many  colored  confetti)  suddenly  and  myster- 
iously appeared,  and  in  an  instant  eggs  were  cracking  on 
dark  and  fair  heads  alike  and  the  room  was  a-glitter  with  a 
shower  of  brilliant  confetti.  In  another  hour  some  of  the 
miners  grew  uproarious  and  in  wild  glee  and  with  most  un- 
certain aim  began  shying  bottles  at  a  serious  beetle,  leisurly 
intent  on  promenading  across  the  ceiling.  Even  amid  this 
excitement  the  shy  little  Senoritas  would  venture  upon  no 
more  extensive  conversation  than  ^*Si,  Sehor/'  or  'Wo, 
SenorJ^  By  two  A.  M.  the  men  were  growing  weary. 
Three  of  us,  however,  doffing  our  coats  heroically  kept  on. 
An  hour  later  a  thoughtful  miner  jammed  a  mescal  bottle  in 
the  phonograph.    That  ended  the  baile  grande. 

For  two  days  thereafter  San  Quintin  was  agog  with  the 
bustle  of  departing  outfits.  Then,  with  much  shouting  of 
mozos  and  sharp  tinkling  of  bells,  a  long  line  of  riders  and 
pack  trains  swung  out  upon  El  Camino  Real  en  route  for 
the  southern  mines,  while  the  balance  of  the  prospectors, 
under  the  leadership  of  Brown,  embarked  on  a  schooner 
bound  for  Cedros  Island.  Meantime  the  St.  Denis  had  de- 
parted for  the  north,  leaving  San  Quintin  to  slumber  once 
again  and  Its  hungry  hordes  of  accursed  fleas  to  devote  their 
exclusive  attention  to  me.  Fortunately  for  my  peace,  my 
temper  and  my  soul,  I  had  an  invitation  from  one  of  the  out- 


264     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


ward  bound  passengers*  to  visit  his  mines  at  Valledaras  on 
the  west  slope  of  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra.  Accordingly, 
goaded  to  desperation  by  the  greedy  tormenters,  I  hastily 
loaded  my  camp  equipage  and  supplies  on  the  Valledaras 
four-mule  freighter  and  upon  the  arrival  of  Timoteo,  the 
two  of  us  climbed  up  beside  the  Indian  driver,  thankful  to 
escape  from  San  Quintin  without  further  delay.  At  the 
same  time  mounting  a  Mexican  boy  on  Pedro,  I  dispatched 
him  northward  with  instructions  to  secure  five  burros  at  the 
Rancho  of  San  Antonio  del  Mar,  where  my  faithful  Ca- 
brillo  had  been  reared,  and  to  bring  them  to  Valledaras. 

The  first  evening  out,  after  having  covered  twenty-one 
miles,  we  made  camp  beside  a  stream  near  the  Dominican 
Mission  of  Santo  Domingo.  As  two  of  their  friars  resided 
here  as  late  as  1854,  this  establishment  may  be  regarded  as 
the  last  stronghold  of  the  Dominicans  in  Lower  California. 
Moreover,  as  the  ruins  even  yet  boast  standing  walls  and 
one  room  intact,  Santo  Domingo  may  be  looked  upon  as  the 
best  preserved  of  the  Dominican  foundations  on  the  Penin- 
sula. An  Indian  showed  me  the  contents  of  the  one  room: 
some  candle-sticks,  figures  of  Our  Lady,  of  Santo  Domingo 
— quite  a  dandy — of  San  Rafael,  of  San  Antonio  and  of 
San  Pedro  Martir.  This  last  image  had  suffered  special 
martyrdom  of  its  own,  having  been  pierced  by  a  rifle  ball. 
In  the  earliest  days  of  Santo  Domingo  Mission,  the  worthy 
friars  said  Mass  in  the  caves  of  a  lofty  red  cliff,  a  mile  be- 
low the  mission  site,  and  this  cliff  the  natives  still  refer  to  as 
the  Old  Mission. 

Almost  in  the  shadow  of  this  Mision  Viejo  there  is  a 
pretty  flower-  and  vine-clad  cottage,  surrounded  by  orange 
trees.  Here  two  elderly  Canadians,  a  brother  and  widowed 
sister,  make  their  peaceful  home.  As  this  gentle  couple 
had  shown  me  extreme  kindness  in  February,  I  now  called 


The  lamented  C.  J.  Young,  since  then  foully  murdered. 


A  FRONTIER  BALL  AND  AGAIN  THE  SIERRAS  265 


to  express  my  appreciation,  telling  them  that  I  had  not  for- 
gotten their  homelike  attentions  given  at  a  time  when  I  was 
sick  and  dispirited.  Vigorous  in  the  aggressive  health  of 
continued  outdoor  life,  I  was  distressed  to  find  the  sister's 
daughter  suffering  with  erysipelas.  Concerning  the  gravity 
of  her  misfortune — there  was  no  physician  to  be  had — the 
young  invalid  was  silent.  She  made  eager  inquiries,  how- 
ever, about  various  portions  of  the  Southern  District  and 
then  spoke  with  sweet  enthusiasm  concerning  her  **neigh- 
bor,"  an  American  born  girl  residing  at  San  Antonio  del 
Mar,  forty-five  miles  to  the  north. 

**In  January  you  visited  San  Antonio  del  Mar  and  Miss 
Bertie  was  then  at  Socorro,"  said  she.  **Now  you  are 
going  to  Socorro  and  she  is  down  by  the  sea.    It's  a  shame 

**It  is  too  bad,"  I  replied,  smiling  at  her  ardor.  "She 
must  be  a  marvelous  young  woman  to  win  the  praise  that 
natives  and  foreigners  alike  lavish  upon  her  very  name." 

^^You  must  not  laugh,"  said  the  invalid,  in  a  hurt  tone. 
**She's  the  most  interesting  personality  in  all  this  country- 
side— and  yet  I  can't  describe  her.  Though  she  has  lived 
in  these  wilds  since  babyhood,  she  has  the  gentle  traits  you 
may  find  in  the  girls  at  home.  And  I  must  tell  you  about 
her  pluck.  Once  during  the  absence  of  her  men  folks,  she 
heard  that  some  marauding  Indians  and  Mexicans  were 
about  to  make  off  with  a  bunch  of  her  father's  range 
cattle.  Without  pausing  for  rest  or  giving  thought  to 
the  risk,  she  rode  for  thirteen  hours;  indeed,  using  up  two 
saddle  horses,  the  range  riding  was  so  rough.  She  saved 
all  the  cattle.  Another  time  she  was  in  San  Diego  with  her 
father.  A  man  of  considerable  means,  he  coolly  pointed  out 
a  magnificent  eastern  residence  to  her,  saying,  **Bertie,  you 
girls  mustn't  remain  Amazons.  I  think  I'll  buy  that  place 
for  you."  She  knew  that  he  might  be  in  earnest.  **Oh, 
you  wouldn't  make  us  live  in  a  city,"  she  cried.    "Town  life 


266     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


must  be  so  crowded.  Can't  we  always  live  in  the  sierras? 
There  we  can  breathe.'' 

'*Good  for  her,"  I  cried,  applauding.  am  converted, 
without  even  having  seen  your  heroine." 

The  ensuing  day  we  passed  the  rancho  of  Camalii,  camp- 
ing in  the  foothills  at  Burro  Spring.  Early  the  following 
morning  we  were  awakened  by  a  wild  yell  from  our  stal- 
wart Indian  driver.  A  gopher  had  rubbed  against  the  pow- 
erful chief's  spear  hand!  The  sixteenth  found  us  up  among 
the  spurs  of  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra,  where  quail,  coyotes 
and  rabbits  were  plentiful,  the  air  crisp  and  the  nights  dewy. 
The  seventeenth  we  attained  an  elevation  of  over  four  thou- 
sand feet,  then,  with  squeaking  wheels  and  brakes  and  drag- 
ging chains,  slid  down  into  a  deep  arroyo  by  the  sheerest 
pitch  I  have  ever  heard  termed  a  wagon  grade.  Crossing 
a  clear,  willow-bordered  stream,  we  followed  a  good  road 
which  shortly  brought  us  to  the  gold  placers  of  Valledaras. 
Here,  set  in  an  amphitheater  of  the  mountains,  was  a  sway- 
ing field  of  green  alfalfa,  bordered  by  fine  oaks,  a  water 
ditch,  hydraulic  rams,  miners'  cabins  and  picturesque  Indian 
shacks.  Well  up  among  the  mountain  spurs,  we  were  now 
at  the  end  of  the  wagon  road  and  in  the  very  shadow  of  the 
heights  of  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra,  the  *Top  of  the  Penin- 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


THE  TOP  OF  THE  PENINSULA* 

HE  day  after  our  arrival  at  Valledaras  I  rode  north- 


ward through  the  sierras  ten  miles  to  a  giant  scoop 


amid  the  ridges  where  a  water  ditch,  reservoirs, 
gold  placers,  adobes  and  miners'  cabins  stood  out  in  sharp 
contrast  against  the  unchanging  olive  green  of  the  surround- 
ing chemise  brush.  This  was  Socorro,  the  mining  property 
of  an  American  family,  the  proprietors  of  Rancho  San  An- 
tonio del  Mar.  Certain  of  these  good  people  I  had  met  in 
January  at  their  rancho,  quickly  recognizing  in  them  the 
highest  type  of  American  frontiersmen  and  women.  Now, 
with  added  pleasure,  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  re- 
maining members  of  this  sturdy  family,  including  a  dark- 
eyed  fine  spirited  young  girl  of  barely  twenty.  This  latter 
was  **Miss  Bertie."  Possessed  of  quiet  dignity  and  a  certain 
direct  manner  quite  in  accord  with  the  strong  character  writ- 
ten in  her  face,  she  seemed  worthy  of  the  characterization, 
given  her  by  the  invalid  at  Santo  Domingo,  of  being  "the 
most  interesting  personality  in  all  the  countryside." 

Twenty-four  hours  after  my  arrival  at  Socorro,  Timoteo 
rode  in  from  Valledaras  with  news  that  the  Mexican  boy, 
unsuccessful  in  his  mission,  had  arrived  with  Pedro  Ximenes. 

Accordingly,  accepting  four  burros  proffered  by  my 
kindly  host,  early  the  ensuing  morning  Timoteo  and  I  re- 
turned with  them  to  Valledaras  where  we  loaded  on  our  sup- 

*  Republished,  in  part,  from  the  Bulletin  of  the  American  Geographical 
Society  for  September,  1907. 


267 


268     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


plies.  Then  we  traveled  easterly  until  we  arrived  at  the 
rancho  of  Santa  Cruz. 

The  real  ascent  of  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra  was  now 
tefore  us.  This  was  the  20th  of  July.  Thereafter,  and 
until  the  13th  of  August,  we  traveled  steadily  up  and  down 
and  about  the  craggy  mountain.  No  chart  or  complete  de- 
scription of  this  magnificent  sierra  has  ever  been  published, 
a  rather  surprising  circumstance  in  view  of  the  fact  that  in 
recent  years  its  inviting  glades  have  become  the  most  fre- 
quent goal  for  visitors  to  the  interior  of  Lower  Cahfornia. 
Perhaps  the  very  grandeur  of  the  views  off  the  eastern  slope, 
defying  description  as  they  do,  may,  in  part,  explain  this 
seeming  neglect. 

San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra  is  not  an  isolated  peak,  essen- 
tially distinct  from  the  mountain  chain  of  the  Peninsula.  On 
the  contrary,  it  is  a  plateau  section  of  that  chain,  a  lofty 
region  where  the  mighty  back-bone  of  the  Lower  California 
Cordilleras  have  attained  to  their  supreme  height.  Doubt- 
less some  of  the  admirals  of  the  brilliant  Conquistador,  Cor- 
tez,  in  their  voyages  up  the  Vermilion  Sea  in  search  of  a 
Northwest  Passage,  were  the  first  civilized  men  to  behold 
the  mighty  mountain  hulk,  while  Cabrillo,  sailing  northward 
along  the  Pacific  coast,  perhaps  first  studied  its  white  out- 
lines from  the  west.  In  the  year  1702,  Padre  Kino,  the 
famous  Jesuit  explorer,  made  note  in  his  journal  of  seeing 
the  Sierra,  and  sixty-three  years  later  Padre  Link,  the 
founder  of  San  Borja  Mission,  came  within  a  few  leagues 
of  its  southern  spurs.  If  I  have  read  correctly  one  of  the 
old  chronicles  of  San  Borja,  he  was  only  saved  from  death 
at  the  hands  of  a  vast  multitude  of  mountain  Indians  by  the 
Intervention  of  a  woman  who,  although  she  accompanied 
the  savages,  was  decently  clothed,  of  regal  bearing  and  keen 
understanding.  After  founding  his  Lower  California  Mis- 
sion of  San  Fernando,  good  Padre  Junipero  Serra  traveled 


Crosses  show  route  taken  by  author 

The  uncharted  Sierra  of  San  Pedro  Martir 


THE  TOP  OF  THE  PENINSULA 


269 


around  the  southern  and  western  spurs  of  the  Sierra  on  his 
historic  journey  northward  to  San  Diego  and  the  field  of 
his  famed  mission  work  in  Upper  California.  Later  Padre 
Cayetano  Pallas  established  the  Dominican  Mission  of  San 
Pedro  Martir  de  Verona  on  the  southwestern  crest  of  the 
Sierra  and  twelve  leagues  east  of  the  Mission  of  Santo  Do- 
mingo. Two  years  thereafter,  in  1796,  Lieutenant  Gover- 
nor Arrilliga  made  an  official  visit  to  the  new  mission,  only 
to  find  that  the  neophytes  had  fled  in  a  body  and  were  un- 
willing to  return  until  a  new  Padre  was  conceded  to  them. 
So  much  for  history. 

The  trend  of  the  California  peninsula  is  southeast  and 
northwest  and  so,  also,  is  the  trend  of  its  greatest  sierra. 
Approximating  from  the  coast  line  charting  of  the  little 
known  territory,  the  geographical  bounds  of  San  Pedro 
Martir  Sierra  are  as  follows,  viz.:  at  the  north,  31°  5'  lati- 
tude, north,  and  115''  40'  and  115''  5'  longitude,  west;  at 
the  south,  30°  25'  latitude,  north,  and  115°  20'  and  115'' 
longitude,  west.  Out  in  long  sweeps  from  the  western  crest 
of  the  Sierra,  reach  a  series  of  rugged  spurs,  some  of  them 
only  breaking  against  the  shore  line  of  the  Pacific  Ocean 
over  fifty  miles  distant;  to  the  east,  with  appalling  sublim- 
ity, sheer  precipices  and  sharp  granite  ridges  bridge  the  im- 
mensity of  space  between  the  crest  and  the  San  Felipe  Desert 
reaching  back  from  the  barren  hills  down  against  the  Gulf; 
to  the  south  the  main  ridge  breaks,  merging  into  hills  only 
to  rise  again,  later,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  heights  of  Matomi 
and  San  Juan  de  Dios.  To  the  north,  also,  the  sierra  range 
lessens  until  at  Valle  Trinidad  (Trinity  Valley)  it  loses  its 
identity. 

The  main  crest  of  the  Sierra  is  approximately  fifteen 
leagues  in  length  by  three  and  a  half  in  breadth.  This  lofty 
area  is  occupied  by  grassy  meadows,  timber  covered  swales, 
cross  ridges  and  picachos.    There  are  perennial  springs, 


270     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


cold  streams,  and  at  the  meadow  of  La  Grulla  (the  Crane) 
a  small  lake.  The  sierra  is  snow  clad  in  winter  and  early 
spring,  while  summer  thunder  storms  feed  its  hurrying 
streams. 

Beginning  at  the  south  and  passing  northward  along  the 
crest  the  successive  meadows  are  known  as  Sant'  Eulalia, 
Santa  Rosa  and  Santo  Tomas,  El  Mision  or  San  Martir, 
La  Grulla,  UEncentata  (the  Enchanted,  so  called  on  ac- 
count of  the  ease  with  which,  owing  to  its  secluded  position, 
it  seemingly  eludes  the  traveler),  and  Vallecitos  (Little 
Valley.)  These  meadows,  each  containing  from  one  to 
two  thousand  acres  of  verdant  plain,  are  connected  by  in- 
distinct and  broken  cattle  trails  which  criss-cross  the  sierra. 

Scattered  broadcast  along  the  crest  lie  massive  white  and 
gray  granite  boulders,  while  here  and  there  stately  white 
granite  picachos  loom  upward  spurning  haughtily  the  level 
of  their  surroundings.  To  the  immediate  north  of  UEncen- 
tata three  of  these  picachos,  the  Tres  Palomas  (Three 
Doves),  are  ranged  side  by  side.  Farther  north  a  mighty 
peak.  El  Providencia  (The  Divinity,  Providence) — also 
known  as  El  Picacho  Blanco  (The  White  Peak) — rises  high 
above  the  clouds,  the  jagged  summit  of  all  Baja  California, 
the  unchallenged  retreat  of  lions  and  mountain  sheep,  the 
unsealed  lookout  of  eagles  and  mighty  condors.  The  glit- 
tering granite  sides  of  this  majestic  peak  glisten  in  the  sun 
as  though  robed  in  purest  snow  and  even  from  the  banks  of 
the  Colorado,  a  hundred  miles  away,  its  jagged  white  pin- 
nacle juts  boldly  above  the  sky  line.  La  Corona  (The 
Crown),  a  high,  timber-capped  ridge  to  the  southwest  of 
El  Providencia,  vies  with  the  latter  in  height,  attaining  an 
altitude  slightly  in  excess  of  ten  thousand  feet.  A  third, 
and  almost  equally  lofty  ridge,  lies  to  the  north  of  Corona 
and  is  unnamed.  A  small,  rock-bound  meadow  is  concealed 
below  the  summit  of  this  ridge  and  here  the  ruins  of  an  old 


THE  TOP  OF  THE  PENINSULA 


271 


shack  with  a  stone  foundation  indicate  the  one-time  retreat 
of  a  notorious  gang  of  horse  thieves  who  occupied  the  sierra 
some  years  ago,  their  operations  extending  from  Baja  Cali- 
fornia over  into  California  and  Sonora. 

Pines  are  a  rarity  on  the  peninsula.  On  the  crest,  how- 
ever, of  San  Pedro  Martir — from  a  distance  apparently  a 
gigantic  mass  of  barren  white  cliffs — spruce,  cypress,  tama- 
rack, fir,  incense  cedar,  yellow  pine  and  sugar  pine,  the  pitch 
pine  and  the  pine  that  bears  the  pinons  beloved  by  the 
Indians,  flourish  and  fearlessly  invade  the  meadows  and 
the  granite  ridges.  About  the  streams  the  aspen  and  the 
willow,  ferns  and  wild  flowers  cluster,  forming  cool  enticing 
nooks,  and  yet  the  awful  chasm  which  primeval  forces 
gashed  into  the  northern  and  western  sides  of  the  sierra, 
shaping  courses  for  these  same  streams  to  rush  down  and 
lose  themselves  in  the  San  Felipe  Desert,  are  grim  and  for- 
bidding. 

In  making  an  ascent  of  the  sierra,  either  from  Valledaras 
or  Socorro,  the  traveler  rises  slowly  for  a  league,  then,  with 
a  sharp  upward  pitch,  the  trail  zigzags  nerve-rackingly  sky- 
ward two  or  three  thousand  feet,  winding  in  and  out  of  the 
white  granite  boulders  and  cliffs  and  leaving  behind  the 
mines  and  the  Mexican  and  Indian  ranchos  of  Santa  Cruz, 
San  Antonio,  and  San  Isidro.  Finally,  mountain  benches, 
six  or  seven  thousand  feet  above  the  sea  level  are  reached, 
pines  and  grass  bound  streams  appear  unexpectedly,  the 
lower  world  becomes  a  vista  of  distant  peaks — and  the  crest 
of  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra  is  attained.  The  traveler  now 
finds  himself  in  a  new  world,  totally  unlike  the  balance  of 
Baja  California,  a  world  where  he  may  wander  at  will;  for 
condors  and  eagles,  wild  ducks,  mountain  quail,  deer,  wild 
cats,  lions,  coyotes,  half  wild  horses  and  cattle — descendants 
of  the  herds  of  the  Frailes — alone  dwell  on  the  crest.  Dur- 
ing short  periods  native  vaqueros  occupy  shacks  at  the  mea- 


272      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


dows  of  Santo  Tomas  and  La  Grulla,  but  the  crisp  nights 
and  mornings,  most  invigorating  to  northern  blood,  are  little 
relished  by  the  Mexicans. 

Throughout  Lower  California  the  deer  are  rapidly  dis- 
appearing. On  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra  they  will  soon  be 
a  tradition;  and  yet,  in  the  open  forest  glades,  they  add 
wonderfully  to  the  charm.  They  are  too  easily  killed,  how- 
ever, to  long  survive  professional  hunters  and  amateur 
butchers.  Until  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  large 
gray  wolves  roamed  over  the  great  sierra ;  the  last  one  seen 
was  killed  in  1903.  In  the  early  eighties  a  lone  bear  took 
up  his  temporary  abode  on  the  mountain  crest,  doubtless  en- 
joying himself  hugely,  for  the  native  hunters  fled  in  dismay 
before  his  tracks,  reporting  that  the  Devil  was  at  large  on 
the  Sierra.  In  even  the  most  remote  regions  of  the  penin- 
sula bears  are  unknown.  The  mountain  sheep  is  the  best 
protected  variety  of  game  on  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra. 
Among  the  barren  crags  along  the  well  nigh  inaccessible 
eastern  and  southeastern  sections  of  the  sierra,  numbers  of 
these  magnificent  creatures  live  almost  in  undisturbed  con- 
tent, lending  an  additional  picturesqueness  to  the  majestic 
scenery. 

In  prehistoric  times  a  race  of  people  drew  petroglyphs 
on  cliffs  In  the  deep  canons  about  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra 
— and  drew  them  where  men  of  modern  stature  may  not 
reach.  They  were  succeeded  by  a  tribe  of  Indians  who  were 
also  of  magnificent  physique,  for  six  feet  Is  but  an  ordinary 
height  among  the  Kallwas,  the  descendants  of  these  old- 
time  red  men.  The  Kallwas  are  stalwart,  dark-skinned, 
people.  They  live  In  the  rancherias  of  Arroyo  Leon, 
Janook  and  San  Antonio,  small  clusters  of  thatch  and  pole 
shacks  situated  upon  the  northern  slope  of  the  sierra  and 
within  easy  journeying  of  the  pinon  trees.  Mixed  bloods 
from  this  tribe  are  found  at  many  of  the  Mexican  ranchos 


THE  TOP  OF  THE  PENINSULA  273 


north  and  west  of  the  sierra.  According  to  the  old  Jesuit 
Link,  the  Indians  on  the  southern  slopes  of  the  mighty  sierra 
that  blocked  his  northern  explorations  lived  in  houses  of 
wood,  but  he  may  have  used  ''houses"  relatively,  referring 
merely  to  shacks. 

The  Dominican  Mission  of  San  Pedro  Martir  de  Verona 
was  erected  on  rising  ground  at  the  northern  edge  of  a  well 
watered  meadow.  The  walls  are  now  nearly  level  with  the 
ground.  The  buildings  were  of  adobe,  built  around  the 
usual  court.  They  faced  slightly  east  of  south  and  covered 
a  space  eighty-five  paces  by  fifty-seven,  with  entrances  at  the 
north  and  south.  From  the  outline  of  the  ruins  there  were 
apparently  two  small  forts  near  the  southwest  corner  of  the 
mission,  and  a  stock  enclosure,  with  an  area  of  eighty-five 
by  twenty-nine  paces,  adjoined  the  walls  at  the  north.  There 
was  also  a  defensive  wall  of  some  sort  extending  southeast- 
erly from  the  northeast  corner  of  the  main  court.  As  I  found 
pieces  of  old  red  tiling  about  the  ruins,  I  assume  that  tile 
roofs  were  in  use  at  San  Pedro  Martir  Mission,  although  the 
Lower  California  establishments  were  usually  roofed  with 
cement  and  gravel,  or  with  thatch. 

According  to  tradition,  three-quarters  of  a  century  ago 
this  mission  suffered  so  frequently  at  the  hands  of  the  Kali- 
was  that  soldiers  and  armed  Indian  converts  from  the  mis- 
sions of  San  Vicente  and  Santo  Domingo  were  sent  forth  to 
subdue  the  troublesome  ones.  As  the  Indians  all  delighted 
in  warfare  and  as  each  tribe  considered  the  others  its  ene- 
mies, one  may  imagine  the  holy  joy  with  which  the  Indian 
converts  (?)  entered  upon  the  pursuit  of  the  ^'broncos  J'  Be- 
fore the  dread  firearms  the  latter  eventually  capitulated  and, 
bound  hand  and  foot,  they  were  carried  down  from  the 
mountain  crest,  tied  behind  their  mounted  conquerors. 
Later,  the  captives  were  put  to  work  at  the  Missions  of 
Santo  Tomas,  San  Vicente  and  Santo  Domingo,  where  lung 


274     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

infirmities  shortly  decimated  their  numbers.  At  this  time 
brief  visits  to  the  crest  of  the  sierra  in  search  of  pinons  or 
venison  mark  the  utmost  extent  of  any  Kaliwa's  interest  in 
the  old  haunts  of  his  tribe. 

Written  references  to  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra  have  been 
so  rare  during  the  past  century  that  one  might  count  them 
upon  the  fingers  of  one  hand.  In  the  **Historical  Summary 
of  Lower  California  History",  written  by  the  early  Cali- 
fornia historian,  A.  S.  Taylor,  and  brought  out  forty  years 
ago  by  J.  Ross  Browne,  a  lone  paragraph  appeared  concern- 
ing a  lofty,  snow  covered  peak  lying  between  the  Missions 
of  San  Fernando  and  Santa  Catarina.  In  1894,  Mr.  George 
Gould  hunted  mountain  sheep  along  the  northern  spurs  of 
the  sierra  and  his  experiences  are  recorded  in  a  publication 
of  the  Boone  and  Crockett  Club,  brought  forth  in  the  nine- 
ties by  Colonel  Theodore  Roosevelt.  Eight  years  later, 
Mr.  Edmund  Heller,  of  the  Field  Columbian  Museum  of 
Chicago,  collected  mammals  along  the  western  half  of  the 
sierra  and  a  report  of  his  doings  is  on  file  in  the  archives  of 
the  museum.  The  ensuing  account  of  San  Pedro  Martir 
Sierra,  giving  it  an  unwonted  name,  is  quoted  from  the 
"West  Coast  of  Mexico,"  prepared  by  the  Hydrographic 
Office  of  the  United  States  Navy  from  data  furnished  during 
the  seventies  by  Commander  George  Dewey  of  the  U.  S.  S. 
Narragansett,  This  book  was  published  in  1880  and  in 
subsequent  reprints  the  same  improper  designation  has  been 
given  the  sierra;  moreover,  in  consequence  of  this  govern- 
mental error,  recent  French  and  Mexican  writers  have  com- 
mitted the  same  blunder. 

**Calamahue  Mountain,"  says  the  account,  "sometimes 
called  Santa  Catalina  Mountain,  from  the  Mission  of  that 
name  near  its  foot,  lies  28^  miles  S.  84  W.  (W.  by  S. 
mag.)  from  Point  San  Felipe.    It  has  a  whitish  appearance 
with  a  jagged  top,  and  is  the  highest  mountain  in  Lower 


THE  TOP  OF  THE  PENINSULA  275 

California,  having  an  elevation  of  10,126  feet  above  the  sea 
level,  and  can  be  seen  in  clear  weather  a  distance  of  over 
ICQ  miles.  Strange  as  it  may  appear  it  was  never  set  down 
on  any  chart  until  those  of  the  Narragansetf s  survey, 
1873  ^875,  were  published.  Father  Kino  speaks  of  it, 
in  1702,  as  being  covered  with  snow  during  the  winter  and 
spring. 

*^There  is  said  to  be  in  the  vicinity  of  Mount  Calamahue, 
a  large  mountain  lake,  which  feeds  the  various  small  streams 
that  flow  toward  the  Pacific  coast. 

*The  Cocupa  Indians,  who  inhabit  some  parts  of  this 
region,  report  the  existence  of  gold  there,  and  they  occa- 
sionally come  to  the  Colorado  River  bringing  nuggets  of 
pure  gold  with  them,  which  they  trade  off.  They  do  not  per- 
mit white  men  to  enter  that  part  of  the  country  which  they 
inhabit,  and  thus  far  have  succeeded  in  keeping  undisputed 
possession  of  their  treasure,    .    .  . 

**The  coast  from  San  Felipe  Point  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Colorado  River,  a  distance  of  about  thirty  miles,  trends 
nearly  due  north." 

To  my  numerous  inquiries  made  throughout  Lower  Cali- 
fornia concerning  the  mountain's  name,  San  Pedro  Martir 
Sierra  has  ever  been  the  unfailing  response.  Survivors  of 
the  once  numerous  tribes  of  the  Pais,  Kaliwas,  Santa  Cata- 
rina  Yumas  and  Cocupa  Indians,  who,  from  time  imme- 
morial, have  visited  the  mountain  in  war  and  for  game, 
pinons  or  gold,  invariably  say  that  San  Pedro  Martir  has 
been  the  sierra's  title  for  a  long,  long  time  and  that  they 
have  never  known  the  names  of  Calamahue  or  Santa  Cata- 
lina  to  be  associated  with  it.  In  this  the  Mexican  and  for- 
eign residents  concur.  Moreover,  the  Mission  of  San  Pedro 
'Martir  de  Verona  was  established  upon  the  crest  in  the  year 
1794,  and  this  was  full  three  years  prior  to  the  foundation 
of  the  Mission  of  Santa  Catarina,  or  Catalina — which,  by 
the  way,  is  fifty  miles  to  the  north  of  and  not  **near  the  foot" 
of  the  mountain.  Unquestionably  the  sierra  derived  its 
name  from  the  Mission  of  San  Pedro  Martir.  "Calamahue 


276     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

Mountain''  is  a  misnomer,  a  name  entirely  without  authority. 

In  the  days  of  the  Frailes,  as  the  Dominican  Friars  were 
termed  by  the  Indians,  mountain  crest  and  mission  were 
reached  by  four  different  caminos.  The  Sierra  Camino 
Real  passed  directly  through  the  mission  grounds,  coming 
in  from  Agua  Dulce,  San  Fernando  and  the  Ranchos  of  San 
Juan  de  Dios  and  Rosarito  at  the  south  and  continuing  along 
the  sierra  crest  and  down  its  northern  slope  whence  it  crossed 
Valle  Trinidad  making  straight  for  Santa  Catarina  Mission. 
A  branch  trail  of  the  Gulfo  Camino  crossed  a  dozen  leagues 
of  arid  hills  and  desert  swale  from  the  Bay  of  San  Felipe 
to  the  mouth  of  the  Santa  Rosa  Arroyo,  thence  by  an  ascent 
rapidly  increasing  in  dizziness,  bore  upward  to  the  crest 
whence  it  wore  along  nearly  due  west  to  the  mission.  A 
third  trail — and  an  excellent  one — approached  the  mission 
from  the  west,  heading  at  Santo  Domingo  Mission,  down 
on  the  Pacifico  Camino. 

By  this  last  trail  Timoteo  and  I  reached  the  mountain 
crest  on  the  25th  of  July.  From  the  mission  ruins — in  recent 
years  even  the  ghostly  walls  were  put  through  the  gold  pans 
of  treasure  hunters  vainly  searching  for  the  traditional 
buried  wealth  of  the  Frailes — we  crossed  and  criss-crossed 
the  crest,  following  old  trails  which  invariably  died  out  and 
left  us  to  the  guidance  of  my  compass.  Finally,  the  mag- 
netic needle  was  put  out  of  commission  by  a  fall  which  I 
had.  Thereafter  we  roamed  at  will.  But  while  this  method 
of  traveling  was  giving  me  an  absolute  familiarity  with  the 
sierra,  it  was  wearing  upon  the  nerves  of  my  mozo.  I  had 
€ngaged  him  not  only  because  he  was  a  good  packer  but 
more  especially  because  he  was  a  good  packer  who  had  never 
been  on  the  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra,  for  to  my  mind  when 
one  really  wishes  to  explore  any  section  of  country  the  or- 
dinary guide  Is  an  abomination,  being  ever  ready  to  cook 
up  most  alarming  stories  In  opposition  to  any  route  other 


THE  TOP  OF  THE  PENINSULA  277 


than  the  cut  and  dried  one  with  which  he  chances  to  be 
familiar.  On  the  evening  of  the  29th  of  July,  we  made 
camp  in  a  particularly  eerie  gorge  and  my  man  lost  his  nerve. 

**Senor,  where  are  we?"  he  asked,  in  trepidation. 

**On  top  of  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra." 

This  simple  response  failed  to  calm  him.  **Senor,  are  not 
you  afraid?" 

I  laughed.  **What  is  there  to  fear?"  And  as  elements 
of  security  I  pointed  successively  to  my  fire-arms,  the  provi- 
sion packs,  two  freshly  killed  deer,  my  outfit  and  the  clear 
stream  flowing  not  ten  feet  away. 

**We  are  alone,  Seiior,  in  a  wild  place  which  neither  of 
us  has  ever  before  seen!" 

Had  I  told  him  that  these  very  elements  doubled 
the  interest  of  our  camp,  he  would  not  have  understood  me. 
I  therefore  asked,  **Do  you  not  know  that  until  our  time 
comes,  nothing  can  injure  us?  that  when  it  comes  there  will 
be  no  escape?  that  there  is  only  one  death?" 

The  Mexican  pondered  a  moment  over  this  fatalistic 
view  that  is  so  quieting  for  those  who  venture  into  danger- 
ous places.  Then,  as  a  lion  screeched  Inanely  in  the  crags 
above,  he  made  response,  **Senor,  that  may  be  well  for  a 
single  man.    I  have  a  family  to  consider." 

Certainly  there  is  an  uncalled  for  dread  of  the  recesses 
of  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra^  and  with  equal  certainty  the 
proper  companion  for  the  mountains  is  hard  to  find.  Fi- 
nally, Timoteo  expressed  a  willingness  to  travel  about  the 
Sierra,  provided  there  was  a  third  man  in  my  party;  but  he 
would  not  follow  me  on  my  proposed  trip  across  the  deserts 
to  the  Colorado  River. 

Two  days  later  we  left  the  crest  by  the  Santa  Cruz 
Camino,  a  steep  but  plain  trail  leading  westward  from  La 
GruUa,  and  returned  to  Socorro.  In  vain,  however,  did  I 
inquire  among  the  Mexicans  and  Indians  about  the  mines 


278      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

for  a  mozo  willing  to  cross  the  deserts  to  the  Colorado. 
They  did  not  know  the  way,  they  said;  one  man  knew  the 
route  but  considered  such  a  trip  in  August  certain  death. 
Ultimately,  when  I  stated  my  determination  of  continuing 
though  I  went  alone,  even  the  good  Americans  remon- 
strated, advising  me  to  reconsider  my  course. 

Then  upon  the  scene  appeared  the  ''Colonel."  We  had 
met  in  January  at  San  Antonio  del  Mar.  Of  long  locks 
and  matted  beard,  sharp-eyed,  slight,  wiry  and  agile,  part 
and  parcel  of  his  steed:  such  is  my  friend  the  ''Colonel." 
An  orphan  early  thrown  on  the  world,  he  entered,  at  the 
age  of  twelve  the  Confederate  Secret  Service.  As  a  Rebel 
spy,  his  sense  of  duty  to  his  cause  became  so  a  part  of  his 
nature  that  deep  contrition  marked  his  confession  to  me 
'that,  on  one  occasion,  he  had  let  slip  a  clear  opportunity  of 
bagging  a  Union  cavalryman — merely  because  he  feared, 
the  trooper  being  a  sister's  husband,  that  the  man's  death 
might  bring  tears  to  her  eyes!  The  feeling  that  this  un- 
sportsmanlike omission  savored  of  treason  and  mawkish 
susceptibility  still  rankles  in  the  mind  of  the  Colonel;  indeed, 
as  he  naively  explained,  except  for  this  most  regrettable 
case  of  youthful  weakness,  he  has  always  made  a  point  of 
never  allowing  his  sentiment  to  interfere  with  his  shootings. 
The  war  over,  he  drifted  to  the  cow  trail  in  Texas;  later, 
Indian  fighting  in  Colorado  claimed  his  attention;  for  a  time, 
gambling  at  Deadwood  enthralled  him.  Eventually,  how- 
ever, the  south  and  the  west  alike  became  too  tranquil  for 
a  man  accustomed  to  an  active  life  and,  in  1887,  the  Colonel 
crossed  the  Border.  Though  he  carries  over  fifty  years 
and  has,  at  various  times,  gone  down  before  pistol  bullet 
or  rolling  mustang,  his  energy  is  unimpaired,  as  I  early  dis- 
covered when  he  held  me  even  in  a  sprint  after  runaway 
burros,  notwithstanding  certain  and  numerous  hours  which 
I  had  devoted  to  the  cinder  path  in  the  nineties. 


THE  TOP  OF  THE  PENINSULA 


279 


My  New  Year's  experiences  with  the  Catarinas  had 
reached  the  Coloners  ears  and  he  pined  to  be  with  me  now 
that  I  had  planned  revisiting  that  predatory  tribe.  I  did 
not  deny  him  the  pleasure.  In  fact,  had  there  been  occa- 
sion for  urging,  I  would  willingly  have  drawn  upon  my 
entire  reserve  of  persuasion. 

  :         it,"  he  began,  greeting  my  invitation  with 

sulphurous  sincerity,  *4f  none  of  the  Mexs 

and  Indians  '11  go  with  you,  an'  you're  so  Hell-fired  set  on 

goin',  I'll  make  the  trip.  me,  if  I'll  see 

a  white  man  tackle  a  ride  like  that  alone. 

An'  from  what  I  hear  there's  like  to  be  somethin'  doin' 
when  we  meet  them  Yumas." 

**Colonel,"  said  I,  warmly,  "you're  a  gentleman." 

"An'  no  offense,  but  you're  a  fool,  that's  what 

you  are,  goin'  onto  them  deserts  in  August.  An'  you're  a 
man  of  my  own  kind.    An'  before  we  start,  I'd  appreciate 

your  fixin'  up  my  will  for  me  for  those  deserts  '11  be  

 thirsty." 

That  evening  Lettie  and  LoUie,  the  youngest  members  of 
the  pioneer  family,  besought  me  to  write  down  for  them  the 
words  of  some  song.  To  their  delight  I  immediately  gave 
them  the  lines : 

"I  went  to  the  animals'  fair, 

"The  birds  and  the  beasts  were  there,"  etc.,  etc., 

the  monkey  refrain  of  which  had  served  many  times  to  put 
life  into  my  depressed  or  wearied  mozos.  I  then  wrote  out 
for  them  that  classic,  the  "Spider  Song,"  the  one  that  runs 
thus: 

"Oh,  the  blooming,  bloody  spider  went  up  the  water  spout, 
The  blooming,  bloody  rain  came  down  and  washed  the 
spider  out. 


28o     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

The  blooming,  bloody  sun  came  out  and  dried  up  all  the 
rain, 

And  the  blooming,  bloody  spider  came  up  the  spout  again." 

This  so  delighted  LoUie  that  as  a  reciprocal  favor  she  vol- 
unteered to  visit  certain  old  Indian  friends  of  hers  and  ob- 
tain for  me  specimens  of  their  songs. 

The  following  morning,  reinforced  by  the  Colonel  and 
an  American  mining  man  from  South  America,  Timoteo 
and  I  reascended  the  sierra  by  the  Socorro  Camino.  This 
time  we  found  camped  at  Vallecitos  a  plucky  American 
woman,  surrounded  by  her  boys  and  girls.  I  invited  one 
of  the  young  fellows,  a  sturdy  looking  chap,  keen  for 
a  good  shoot,  to  accompany  us  to  the  Colorado,  but  either 
my  rough  appearance  or  the  statement  of  his  alarmed  San 
Quintin  guide  (?)  that  the  Cocupas  would  scalp  us,  caused 
him  to  decline. 

On  this  trip  I  completed  my  examination  of  the  sources 
of  the  various  immense  canons  that  swing  out  from  the  sides 
of  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra.  Beginning  at  the  southeast 
and  continuing  to  the  east  these  arroyos  are  known  as  Agua 
Caliente,  Santa  Rosa,  Providencia  and  Arroyo  Diablo — in 
its  fearful  majesty  well  earning  this  name;  Arroyo  Copal, 
Arroyo  Esperancia  and  Arroyo  San  Mattias  which  trend 
northward;  Arroyo  Leon,  Arroyo  Weeks  (Lizard), 
Arroyo  San  Rafael  and  Arroyo  San  Pedro  take  westerly 
courses,  while  Valledaras  and  San  Antonio  Arroyos  at  the 
west  and  southwest  ultimately  unite,  forming  Santo  Do- 
mingo Arroyo,  which  empties  into  the  Pacific  leagues  dis- 
tant. San  Antonio  Arroyo,  formed  by  the  junction  of  the 
water  courses  from  the  old  mission  and  from  La  GruUa — > 
which,  at  its  headwaters,  is  called  La  Zanca  (The  Shank) 
— is  the  one  trout  stream  in  Lower  California. 

Well  supplied  with  venison,  we  shortly  returned  to 
Socorro,  following  the  Corona  and  Concepcion  Caminos 


THE  TOP  OF  THE  PENINSULA 


281 


that  we  might  leave  at  the  Concepcion  Rancho  a  supply  of 
fresh  meat  with  a  married  sister  of  Miss  Bertie.  This 
energetic  matron  was  busily  looking  after  a  ranch  while  her 
husband  was  managing  a  mine  leagues  distant.  Except  for 
her  three  little  children  and  a  faithful  Mexican  girl,  she 
was  alone  and  unprotected  in  the  mountain  wilderness. 

**Madam,  are  you  not  in  continual  fear?"  I  ventured, 
and  my  little  people  are  in  continual  good  health,"  she 
answered,  amused  at  my  amazed  expression.  Then,  be- 
coming serious,  she  added,  '^I  was  born  in  the  States.  There 
I  would  not  have  dared  live  so  alone.  Here,  there  are  few 
wanderers  and  no  tramps.  The  Indian  and  Mexican  women 
consider  me  their  friend — I  give  them  medicines  and  treat 
them  kindly.  The  men  keep  their  distance.  They  know 
that  my  hound  would  notify  me  of  their  approach,  and  that 
I  am  armed.  They  realize  that  while  father  has  taught  my 
brothers  to  be  slow  in  using  arms  mother  has  always  cau- 
tioned us  girls  to  shoot  at  the  first  provocation.  Moreover, 
they  know  that  even  though  they  escaped  my  revolver,  they 
could  not  escape  such  indefatigable  trackers  as  my  husband, 
my  father,  my  brothers,  the  Colonel  and  my  native  friends 
who  would  follow  them  down  and  shoot  them  like  dogs. 
No,  here  I  am  safe  from  insult." 

At  Socorro  I  returned  the  borrowed  burros  and  bought 
three  in  their  places.  These  I  named  ^Tadre  Hernando 
'Consag",  after  the  great  Jesuit  explorer;  *'Guillermo 
Walker",  after  the  American  filibuster,  and  "James  O. 
Pattie,"  in  honor  of  the  early  American  trapper.  Having 
approved  of  this  christening,  Lollie  confided  to  me  her  store 
of  original  Indian  philology  which  she  had  acquired  from 
certain  ancient  native  friends.  "I  had  quite  a  time,  at  first," 
said  she,  **they  wanted  to  show  me  that  they  understood 
Spanish,  but  I  held  them  down  to  their  own  lingo." 

Spelling  the  words  phonetically,  I  submit  the  following 


282      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

as  examples  of  Pais  and  Kaliwa  words,  a  la  LoUie,  viz.: 

'^Hu'pa  ma  hup;  sing  ye,  a  mi  wai-sa,^'  (repeat). 

nO'che,  cheu  spili  pow-wow,  cheu  spili  pow-wow, 
*^Yu4,  myu-mai,  chi-wamui  ka-ka,  chi-wami  kakaJ' 

The  first  line  constitutes  the  old  war  song  of  the  Pais,  the 
second  and  third  an  ancient  love  song,  still  in  use  among 
that  tribe.  From  the  Kaliwas  come  these  jaw  breaking 
words:  Pahamehamakaipa  (An  American);  Marashree- 
pahachahamakaipa  (An  American  Girl)  ;  Chihiskwi-kwiro 
(wire)  ;  Mezai  (Good),  and  Mahd  (Meat). 

With  my  new  burros,  together  with  three  of  the  Colonel's 
picked  broncos — one  of  which,  Winnie,  I  soon  purchased — 
the  Colonel  and  I  were  now  prepared  for  our  venturesome 
trip.  After  some  hesitancy  my  mozo  decided  to  accompany 
us  as  far  as  Valle  Trinidad.  Poor  fellow,  the  Mexicans 
and  Indians  had  told  him  such  terrifying  yarns  that  his 
fears  were  not  surprising!  Immediately  prior  to  our  de- 
parture Miss  Bertie  baked  for  us  a  choice  batch  of  biscuits 
and  an  entire  haunch  of  venison.  Lettie  and  Lollic,  mean- 
time, introduced  me  to  a  nest  of  '^yellow-jackets''  from 
which  I  fled,  ingloriously ;  their  father  cautioned  us  to  keep 
our  canteens  and  barrel  filled  against  thirst  and  their  mother 
privately  instructed  the  Colonel,  and  later  on  admonished 
me,  to  be  kind  to  the  stock  and  good-tempered  to  each 
other. 

As  I  bade  the  kindly  matron  good-bye,  I  said,  "Let  me 
take  back  to  civilization  your  receipt  for  bringing  up  sons 
and  daughters.  I've  met  seven  of  your  children  and  more 
industrious  or  happier  young  people  I  have  yet  to  see.  Here, 
for  instance,  at  the  end  of  the  world,  you  have  three  attrac- 
tive young  girls.  They  cook,  milk  cows,  round  up  cattle, 
sew,  wash  dishes  and  clothing,  iron,  **break"  stock,  'tend 
store,  look  after  the  mining  reservoirs;  they  work  from 


THE  TOP  OF  THE  PENINSULA 


283 


daylight  to  darkness;  they  are  always  running  or  trotting, 
they  never  drag  listlessly  about.  They  sing  at  their  work; 
they  find  odd  minutes  In  which  to  read  books  and  maga- 
zines; they  are  happy  without  company  and  retire  early 
without  complaining.  Such  contented  girls  I  never  have 
seen  elsewhere.   How  have  you  done  It?'' 

At  first  surprised,  then  amused,  the  mother  listened  to 
my  long  Inquiry.  ''Well,''  said  she,  ''I  was  married  at  six- 
teen. Some  of  the  women  In  my  family — my  father  was  a 
minister  of  the  gospel — suffered  from  111  health.  Upon 
marrying  I  decided  to  live  an  out-door  life.  Only  twice 
since  then  have  doctors  entered  my  home.  I  have  borne 
ten  children.  Nine  live.  I  have  taught  them  to  respect  the 
law,  be  honest,  avoid  going  Into  debt,  be  industrious  and 
be  thoughtful  of  each  other.  In  childhood  each  one  of  them 
at  some  one  time  thwarted  my  will;  in  each  case,  first  care- 
fully explaining  why  I  was  right,  I  have  absolutely  Insisted 
on  my  stand.  Every  one  of  them  has  been  given  his  chance 
to  make  some  money  individually.  That's  all.  I  guess 
they've  just  come  up  In  the  fresh  air." 

Reascending  the  sierra  by  an  unnamed  suggestion  of  a 
trail,  I  quickly  crossed  the  crest  with  my  outfit  and  came  to 
a  halt  at  the  head  of  the  Santa  Rosa  Arroyo.  The  Camino 
Real  at  the  south,  and  the  Agua  Callente  Camino  at  the 
southeast,  were  so  distinct  as  not  to  require  exploration; 
here,  however,  was  the  beginning  of  the  ancient  and  for- 
gotten Santa  Rosa  Camino.  Taking  a  brace  on  ourselves, 
we  started  downwards.  The  Santa  Rosa  Is  one  of  the  two 
most  diabolical  caminos  In  all  Lower  California !  More- 
over, and  with  my  compliments,  the  San  Felipe  Desert  Is 
a  mighty  bad  place  to  visit  In  summer.  Thus  after  a  frosty 
morning  on  the  crest  we  found  ourselves  at  night  stretched 
out  on  burning  sand  with  the  thermometer  registering  112 
degrees. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


WHEREIN  I  WITNESS  A  COMBAT  BETWEEN  MOUNTAIN  SHEEP, 
REVISIT  THE  CATARINA  YUMAS,  AND 
SEARCH  FOR  TREASURE 

WITH  August  now  well  advanced,  the  Lower  Cali- 
fornia deserts  were  vast,  broiling  sand-spits, 
catching  the  fullness  of  the  sun's  rays  and  sullenly 
holding  their  heat  during  the  short,  breathless  nights.  Even 
the  craggy  sierras  glistened  and  baked  under  the  great, 
glaring,  unveiled  eye  of  fire.  Those  who  venture  into  such 
an  atmosphere  grow  chary  of  words,  bowing  before  the 
heat  by  day,  and  cursing  It  and  their  own  foolhardiness 
when  the  horizon  puts  away  the  sun  for  the  night. 

Thus  had  the  day  passed  with  the  Colonel  and  myself, 
descending  the  sierra  slope,  and  thus,  as  we  sought  rest  in 
the  evening,  he  burst  forth,  "Curse  it,  curse  It,  curse  this 
heat,''  he  cried,  wildly,  "the  cursed  earth  is  a-fire  burning 
through  my  blanket.  With  nothin'  over  me  I'm  burnin' 
up.  The  near  way  down's  been  the  way  of  the  sun  to-day. 
How  damn  hot  is  it,  anyway?" 

"It's  112  dgrees,  and  7:45  P.  M.,"  I  replied  shortly, 
after  consulting  both  thermometer  and  watch. 

"Don't  wonder  your  mozo  didn't  want  to  tackle  the  San 
Felipe  and  Colorado  Deserts  this  time  o'  year." 
We  were  silent  a  few  minutes. 

"Colonel,"  I  then  queried,  "my  head's  bad.  Do  you  sup- 
pose this  heat  has  phased  me?" 

285 


286     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


The  old  frontiersman  grunted.  **Dunno,  it's  main  queer 
for  a  man  to  see  things.  Better  git  some  sleep.  I'll  bet 
that  desert  '11  be  hell-fired  hot  to-morrow." 

Half  an  hour  earlier,  as  we  were  unsaddling  on  the  edge 
of  a  tinaja  in  the  frightful  arroyo  down  which  we  had  come 
eastward  out  of  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra,  I  had  vainly  en- 
deavored to  point  out  to  my  companion  what  seemed  to  be 
a  large  black  animal  moving  among  the  white  boulders  on 
the  mountain  side,  half  a  mile  distant.  There  are  no  bears 
in  Baja  California,  and  the  Colonel  was  certain  that  there 
could  be  no  such  large  dark  animal  as  I  described. 

His  sleeping  advice  was  good.  Nine  hours  later  I  sat 
up  in  my  blankets,  feeling  much  refreshed,  hauled  off  the 
jacket  of  my  pajamas,  slipped  on  a  thin  undershirt,  then 
seized  my  carbine  and  half  a  dozen  extra  cartridges,  leaving 
the  completion  of  my  dressing  until  a  later  time;  for  there 
had  come  to  my  ears  from  up  the  mountain  side  a  quick 
succession  of  snorts  and  pig-like  grunts  followed  by  a  great 
crashing  as  of  giant  boulders  falling  upon  one  another. 
Again  my  eyes  had  seen  the  large  dark  animal.  This  time, 
however,  there  were  two  of  them  and  each  had  bulky  shoul- 
ders and  great  rams'  horns  extending  outward.  If  the  heat 
has  affected  both  my  sight  and  hearing,  I  thought,  as  I 
slipped  on  a  pair  of  Mexican  slippers  and  hurried  down  the 
arroyo,  I  may  as  well  see  what  will  come  of  a  little  shooting. 

Fifty  yards  from  camp  I  crouched  down  in  the  conceal- 
ment of  a  mesquit  and  for  fifteen  minutes  watched  a 
knightly  combat.  High  up  on  the  steep  granite  mountain 
side  two  rams  were  fighting  a  desperate  duel.  Backing  off 
ten  or  fifteen  paces,  they  would  rush  forward  grunting  and 
snorting,  their  mighty  heads  bent  low  and  when  they  crashed 
together  their  great  horns  resounded  like  rolling  boulders. 
Doubtless,  to  a  disinterested  observer  the  scene  would  have 
Been  amusing:  high  among  the  cliffs  the  two  big  rams  in 


A  COMBAT  BETWEEN  MOUNTAIN  SHEEP  287 


tournament  engaged,  butting  each  other,  oblivious  of  all 
else;  and  down  in  the  trough  of  the  arroyo,  a  wild-eyed 
liunter  in  undershirt,  pajamas  and  teguas,  rubbing  the  sleep 
out  of  his  eyes  and  wishing  the  sun  were  on  the  mountain 
so  that  he  might  see  the  game  distinctly  through  his  carbine 
sights. 

Finally,  an  ordinary  sized  ram,  seemingly  a  referee  or  a 
peacemaker,  appeared  on  the  scene  and  endeavored  to  sep- 
arate the  combatants.  Then  the  shooting  began.  At  the 
second  shot  the  **referee''  dropped  in  his  tracks.  The  others 
scattered  for  the  moment,  then  returned  and  renewed  their 
contest.  By  this  time  my  cartridges  were  exhausted  and  I 
called  for  more.  The  Colonel  quickly  appeared  with  an 
unbroken  box  and  I  climbed  upon  a  boulder  and  resumed 
firing  while  my  companion  expostulated,  saying  that  if  the 
sheep  were  allowed  to  fight  I  could  creep  closer.  But,  crude 
though  it  may  seem  to  the  polite  hunter,  to  me  ^'shelling" 
is  far  more  interesting  than  stalking,  and  my  carbine  was 
soon  blistering  my  hands.  One  ram  quickly  rushed  away  to 
the  right,  the  other  to  the  left.  The  latter,  as  he  seemed  to 
be  wounded  received  attention  for  full  a  dozen  shots  during 
which  time  he  fell  three  times. 

We  soon  had  the  **referee''  in  camp  though  I  didn't  do 
the  carrying.  He  had  a  short  mane  and  except  for  his  light 
rump  and  nose,  was  of  the  darkest  mole  color;  perhaps  he 
was  one  of  Clavijero's  berrendos  negros,  certainly  there  are 
no  hides  of  like  color  in  our  museums,  although  that  tireless 
sheep  hunter,  Sheldon  of  New  York,  secured  one,  not  un- 
like it,  in  Chihuahua.*  By  the  time  the  ram  was  in  camp 
and  the  pack  train  ready,  the  thermometer  registered  114 
degrees  in  the  shade  with  higher  promises  that  did  not  en- 
courage us  to  scramble  after  the  wounded  duellist,  although 
we  were  certain  of  his  whereabouts  owing  to  the  devoted 


*Note  C:  Appendix. 


288     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


attendance  of  a  ewe  that  appeared  upon  a  cliff  just  above 
where  he  had  fallen  at  the  last  shot.  As  we  journeyed 
toward  the  mouth  of  the  arroyo,  she  looked  fearlessly  down 
upon  us  and  we,  on  our  part,  watched  with  keenest  interest 
the  ease  with  which  she  moved  up  and  down  the  almost  per- 
pendicular sides  of  her  lookout  point,  seeking  the  best  van- 
tage ground  for  observing  our  movements. 

I  left  the  arroyo  realizing  that  I  was  losing  a  wonderful 
ram,  but  with  the  increasing  heat  and  the  necessity  of  hasten- 
ing across  the  San  Felipe  Desert,  not  even  a  gold  mine 
would  have  been  an  incentive  for  delay.  Indeed,  at  lo 
o'clock,  A.  M.,  as  we  crouched  in  the  poor  shade  of  a  palo 
verde  waiting  for  the  distant  night  that  might  bring  a  tem- 
perature possible  for  traveling,  the  Colonel  gave  brusque 
expression  to  his  thoughts,  * 'There's  no  dyin'  till  your  time 
comes,  but  ourn  may  not  be  just  far  off." 

Even  now  as  I  write,  the  memory  of  the  next  ten  days 
is  a  kaleidoscopic  nightmare  of  privation  and  tense  strain, 
of  simmering  deserts,  tawny  Indians  and  alluring  treasure. 
Up  the  San  Felipe  Desert  we  fought  our  way,  contending 
against  frightful  heat  and  the  impending  danger  of  yet 
more  frightful  thirst.  Once  around  the  northern  spurs  of 
the  sierra,  Timoteo  turned  homeward,  taking  an  easy  south- 
westerly trail  and  leaving  the  Colonel  and  me  to  venture  by 
ourselves  among  the  Catarina  Yumas  and  the  Cocupas. 

Later  as  we  two  huddled  close  around  a  grouchy  camp 
fire  in  the  Valle  Trinidad,  drying  out  after  the  drenching  of 
an  unexpected  thunder  storm,  an  intelligent  looking  mestizo 
appeared  before  us.  Receiving  the  usual  invitation,  he 
crouched  beside  our  fire  and,  after  accepting  a  proffered 
smoke,  entered  into  friendly  conversation  in  the  course  of 
which  he  met  my  inquiry  about  jerofflificos  by  asking 
whether  I  had  ever  seen  ^Has  j arras  viejas^^  (the  ancient 
jars) — as  I  understood  him — in  the  Arroyo  Grande.  Then 


A  COMBAT  BETWEEN  MOUNTAIN  SHEEP  289 


our  eager  questioning  brought  out  the  statement  that  even 
a  century  ago,  in  the  days  of  his  grandfather's  youth,  these 
jarras  were  in  a  secluded  niche  in  a  high  cliff  which  suc- 
ceeding generations  of  Indians  had  vainly  endeavored  to 
scale.  With  the  advance  of  the  tale  the  Colonel  became  as 
breathlessly  interested  as  1.  Knowingly  squinting  one  eye, 
he  whispered  quietly  to  me,  in  English,  *'Aztec  treasure!  I 
oncst  made  a  great  haul  that  way  over  in  Arizona."  The 
same  thought  already  possessed  me.  To  our  delight,  upon 
an  offer  of  ten  pesos,  the  mestizo  readily  agreed  to  show  us 
^Has  jarras  J* 

Our  minds  instantly  aflame  with  alluring  mental  pictures 
of  fantastic  ancient  jars  overflowing  with  Aztec  gold  and 
jewels,  we  brooked  no  delay.  Pushing  on  rapidly  to  the 
little  mining  pueblo  of  Alamo  through  which  I  had  passed 
seven  months  before,  we  halted  there  just  long  enough  to 
purchase  such  spikes  and  additional  rope  as  might  be  useful 
in  cliff  climbing — not  forgetting  a  supply  of  lemons  and  an 
extra  canteen  for  use  on  the  desert  near  the  Rio  Hardy — 
then  we  had  hurried  back  a  few  miles  to  the  Rancho  Fiejo 
where  the  mestizo  awaited  us.  That  name,  Rancho  Viejo, 
looks  and  sounds  excellently  well,  though  it  means,  simply, 
Old  Ranch,  a  most  frequent  designation  for  premises  on  the 
Peninsula. 

From  the  rancho  we  followed  an  indistinct  and  ancient 
Indian  trail,  once  a  part  of  El  Camino  Real.  By  nightfall 
we  were  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  ruins  of  the  Santa^ 
Catarina  Mission,  and  near  a  green  vale  where  a  hill  shut 
us  off  from  the  Indians  and  where  a  brook  of  cold  water  ran 
close  by.  Here  we  made  camp.  Though  dogs  were  bark- 
ing and  we  could  see  lights  shining  out  from  the  shacks  at 
the  further  side  of  the  valley,  we  refrained  from  making 
any  visits.  After  picketing  the  animals,  in  place  of  turning 
them  loose  with  hobbles,  and  throwing  his  blankets  near  the 


290     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


more  valuable  portion  of  the  outfit,  the  Colonel  seemed  to 
have  no  further  concern  about  surroundings.  For  my  own 
part  I  slept  little  that  night.  A  cooling  dew  soon  fell,  and 
as  we  had  just  left  the  dry,  burning  desert,  the  dampness 
was  refreshing.  After  over  two  thousand  miles  of  travel 
in  Lower  California,  I  was  ready  to  give  the  Mission  of 
Santa  Catarina  the  palm  for  cool  weather. 

Early  the  following  morning,  we  left  our  outfit  in  camp 
and  rode  up  to  the  rancheria  where  I  observed  more  shacks 
than  before.  Two  of  the  new  ones  were  in  front  of  an  old 
oak  cross,  a  relic  of  the  days  of  the  Frailes  in  whose  time 
it  had  served  to  support  the  mission  bells.  From  these 
shacks  we  received  friendly  greetings  and  the  mestizo 
stopped  for  a  chat  while  the  Colonel  and  I  rode  on  to  the 
ex-chief's  residence. 

I  found  that  the  old  fellow  had  not  forgotten  me.  At 
sight  of  my  camera,  Anita,  too,  smiled  in  recognition.  Of 
the  incidents  of  New  Year's  day  they  seemed  in  ignorance 
and  I  made  no  mention  of  their  tribe's  misdoings  but  at 
once  proceeded  to  show  the  family  pictures  which  I  had 
taken  of  their  shack  and  of  other  Indians  and  of  game.  The 
ex-chief  was  much  pleased  at  a  picture  of  a  mountain  sheep 
while  Anita  and  her  sister  gazed  with  interest  at  a  picture 
of  a  Pais  Indian  girl.  It  was  soon  arranged  that  I  should 
photograph  the  entire  family,  a  blind  patriarch — father  of 
the  ex-chief — the  ex-chief  himself  and  his  squaw,  Anita  and 
her  sister  and  Anita's  parents.  As  a  thunder  shower  was 
thinking  seriously  of  breaking  loose,  I  was  dubious  of  re- 
sults. After  two  snaps,  I  tried  smaller  groups  and  then 
asked  Anita  and  her  father,  a  big,  dark,  burly  buck,  in  no 
way  like  her,  to  pose  together;  but  no,  Anita  would  be  taken 
alone,  but  not  with  *'him^\ 

She  was  not  quite  thirteen  years  of  age  and  her  youthful 
figure  was  as  straight  and  slender  as  that  of  a  boyish  cadet 


A  COMBAT  BETWEEN  MOUNTAIN  SHEEP  291 


captain.  Her  bright  eyes  were  the  modest  eyes  of  a  child. 
The  sister  had  a  stolid  expression  like  the  father's,  but 
Anita's  clear-cut  features  were  more  Gallic  than  Indian. 
Both  girls,  with  their  simple  gowns,  their  conventional  shoes 
and  stockings,  their  air  of  fresh,  wholesome  neatness, 
seemed  far  removed  from  the  wonted  squalor  of  the  ran- 
cheria. 

The  old  man,  the  only  beggar  in  the  group,  asked  for 
tobacco.  Later,  in  response  to  questioning,  he  told  of  the 
mission  days,  and,  with  a  senile  boast,  stated  that  his  tribe 
had  always  been  'Very  fierce,"  that  they  had  quarreled  with 
the  Frailes  and  with  the  Cocupas,  Kaliwas,  and  neighboring 
Indian  tribes.  Rambling  along,  he  related  how  he  and  his 
braves  had  fought  first  with  and  then  against  Filibuster 
^'Guillermo'^  Walker,  and  how  they  had,  at  another  time, 
joined  their  relatives,  the  Yumas,  along  the  Gila,  in  haras- 
sing the  caravans  en  route  to  the  Sacramento  Placers. 

*'I  have  killed  many  men,"  said  he,  with  a  grin  on  his 
toothless  old  visage,  *'but  the  best  was  when  I  killed  women 
and  children  from  those  caravans — they  had  such  fine,  long 
scalps."  Raising  his  wizened  old  arms,  he  imitated  the 
drawing  of  a  bowstring  and  the  handling  of  a  scalping 
knife,  the  meantime  chuckling  reminiscently.  As  I  looked  at 
the  sputtering  old  villain  and  thought  of  the  helpless  women 
and  children  that  had  died  to  make  up  the  ''best  time"  of 
his  life,  I  felt  a  most  ardent  desire  to  turn  my  six-shooter 
upon  him. 

Anita's  father  now  volunteered  to  show  me  the  old  mis- 
sion bell,  though  the  grandfather  seemed  doubtful  and  made 
some  remark  which  I  could  not  understand.  Following 
three  of  the  Indians,  the  Colonel  and  I  proceeded  to  a  brush 
shack  about  a  hundred  paces  distant.  Our  guides  opened 
the  door  of  the  shack  and  we  found  within  a  large,  heavy 
bell.    It  was  inscribed,  ^'Santophe  1757."   As  I  was  endea- 


292      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

voring  to  make  a  favorable  impression  on  the  Indians  by 
raising  the  old  relic  from  the  ground,  we  heard  guttural 
exclamations  and  quick  hoof  beats.  I  put  down  the  bell 
and  stepped  out  from  the  shack  just  in  time  to  meet  an  angry 
Catarina  Yuma. 

He  was  the  Capitan,  or  chief,  it  seemed,  and  as  such  he 
objected  to  a  stranger's  entering  the  precincts  over  which  he 
was  guardian.  He  was  mounted  on  a  fiery,  black  stallion. 
He  carried  a  knife,  which  did  not  look  friendly,  rode  bare- 
back and  wore  no  clothing  save  a  breech-cloth  and  a  serapa. 
My  friends  made  some  explanation,  the  Colonel  offered 
cigarettes  and  we  left  the  Capitan  with  his  bell.  As  we  re- 
turned to  the  other  shack,  Anita's  father  explained  that  this 
man  had  supplanted  the  old  chief  because  the  latter  drank 
too  much  mescal,  and  now  this  fellow  was  drunk  all  the 
time  while  the  ex-chief  had  become  temperate.  It  would 
seem  that  the  excitement  of  office  goes  to  the  head  of  even 
a  Catarina  Yuma.  We  observed  as  we  rode  away  that  the 
Indians  had  a  field  of  over  a  hundred  acres  of  fine  corn  and 
melons. 

We  traveled  hard  that  day;  late  in  the  afternoon  we 
rested  a  few  minutes  before  the  brush  camp  of  a  Mexican 
vaquero.  Tanned  hides  were  stretched  about  in  wild  con- 
fusion, and  the  Mexican,  noting  that  they  attracted  my 
attention,  remarked  that  he  intended  to  have  them  made 
up  into  '*shaps"  and  leather  pantaloons. 

'*As  you  stopped  down  there  by  the  Catarinas,"  he  con- 
tinued, **you  doubtless  saw  the  well  dressed  little  squaw, 
Anita.  She  sews  well,  she  cooks  well.  In  a  few  days  I  go 
to  the  chief  and  get  her.  I  am  lonely  and  I  have  much  sew- 
ing here  to  be  done." 

Somewhat  astounded,  I  looked  at  him  rather  cynically. 
**She  is  but  a  child,"  I  explained. 


A  COMBAT  BETWEEN  MOUNTAIN  SHEEP  293 


**The  better/'  he  answered,  ''the  chief  will  sell  her  to 
me  for  half  a  beef." 

Before  leaving  the  rancheria  we  had  endeavored  to  per- 
suade the  ex-chief  to  accompany  us  to  the  Colorado  River. 
Vain  our  efforts.  In  August  the  Arroyo  Grande  was  well 
nigh  impossible,  said  the  veteran,  while,  as  for  the  deserts 
beyond,  his  people  never  had  ventured  upon  them  in  mid- 
summer. Then  they  were  too  much  like  el  Infierno!  Unde- 
terred by  these  well-meant  warnings,  we  three  rode  east- 
ward over  into  the  barren  country  about  the  spring  of  El 
Tule,  known  among  the  old  Pais  Indians  as  Jacal  or  Run- 
ning Water,  thence  we  hastened  onward  past  Eagle  Peak, 
across  thirsty  mesas  and  over  rocky  ridges.  Finally,  the 
third  day  after  our  departure  from  the  rancheria,  down  in 
the  narrow  depths  of  the  Arroyo  Grande,  where  the  slant 
red  cliffs  rise  to  dizzy  heights  skyward,  three  swarthy,  rough 
appearing  men,  reining  in  their  mules,  stared  upward  at  a 
niche  fifty  feet  above  the  sandy  arroyo  bottom.  The  swel- 
tering day  was  far  advanced  and  in  consequence  of  a  vain 
scramble  after  an  illusive  band  of  mountain  sheep  two  of 
the  men  were  short  of  temper  and  reeking  with  perspiration. 

^^AUi  (there)  las  jarasP'  exclaimed  one  of  the  two,  with 
an  upward  jerk  of  his  right  hand. 

'Wo  lo  veo  las  jarras'^  (I  don't  see  the  jars),  said  the 
other,  impatiently. 

^'Alli,  alii  las  jaras'^  (There,  there,  las  jaras)j  repeated 
the  first  speaker,  emphasizing  his  final  word. 

"Hell,  man,  them  aint  jarras/'  cried  the  third  rider,  in  a 

sudden  blaze  of  anger.   **  y'u,  have  y'u  bin  play'n 

us?" 

As  I,  the  second  speaker,  caught  sight  of  feathered  arrow 
ends  protruding  from  the  rocky  niche  and  realized  that 
these  were  the  "ancient  jars"  over  which  the  Colonel  and  I 


294     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


had  waxed  enthusiastic,  the  indignation  of  the  imposed  took 
possession  of  me  and  I  was  ready  to  join  the  Colonel  in 
roundly  cursing  the  mestizo  for  '^playin'  "  us.  Meantime 
the  latter  had  become  so  astounded  by  our  non-appreciation 
of  his  services  that  cooling  down  I  paid  him  the  agreed  ten 
pesos.  I  am  glad  that  I  did  so,  for,  though  ^Ha  jarra^' 
means  *^the  jar"  and  flecha  is  the  usual  Spanish  word  for 
*^arrow,"  I  have  since  learned  that  ^Ha  jarra/^  Spanish  for 
*'the  cistus,"  has  an  idiomatic  meaning  of  ^'the  dart/'  The 
mestizo  had  been  honest;  we,  however,  had  mistaken  his 
^'las  jaras'^  for  ^Has  jarrasJ^ 

Out  of  curiosity  and  a  desire  to  show  the  fellow  how 
much  superior  we  were  to  Indians,  we  presently  turned  our 
energies  toward  reaching  the  arrows.  By  placing  a  fallen 
mesquit  upright  against  the  cliff  and  by  jamming  horseshoes 
in  cracks  still  higher  up,  I  managed  to  climb  to  a  consid- 
erable height.  Then,  with  a  long  pole  made  by  splicing  two 
maguay  stalks  together  with  raw-hide  and  affixing  a  fish- 
hook to  the  tapering  end,  I  managed,  after  numerous  weari- 
some failures,  to  yank  out  ten  ancient  war  arrows,  together 
with  an  old  fashioned,  twisted,  fire-hardened  spear 
shaft. 

As  soon  as  we  had  accomplished  this  feat,  the  mestizo 
remarked  that  he  must  leave  immediately,  for  his  mule  was 
thirsty  and  he  was  satisfied  that  all  tinajas  east  and  north 
where  we  were  going  were  dry.  Following  this  cheerful 
statement  with  a  hearty  huenos  tardes,  he  spurred  away  in 
the  direction  of  Valle  Trinidad  while  we  journeyed  silently 
down  the  arroyo.  At  eight  o'clock  that  evening  we  found 
well-filled  tinajas.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  a  brown  scor- 
pion stung  me  above  the  right  knee.  The  following  day 
while  I  nursed  my  wound — the  poison  had  spread  out  form- 
ing an  angry  red  and  yellow  spot,  as  large  as  my  hand  and 
extremely  painful — ^the  Colonel  rounded  up  our  straying 


A  COMBAT  BETWEEN  MOUNTAIN  SHEEP  295 


burros  and  killed  a  mountain  sheep.  That  night  we  dis- 
lodged from  our  blankets  an  immense  green  scorpion  over 
three  inches  long! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


IN  AND  OUT  THE  REGION  OF  THE  COLORADO 

OATH  to  leave  water  and  wondering  what  fate  we 


were  tempting,  we  broke   camp   the  twenty-fifth, 


bound  for  the  junction  of  the  Hardy  and  Colorado 
Rivers.  By  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  we  found  ourselves 
beyond  the  mouth  of  the  Arroyo  Grande  and  on  the  south- 
eastern edge  of  a  desert  which  seemed  to  extend  for  forty 
or  fifty  miles  to  the  northwest.  Halting  at  this  point  for 
lunch,  we  rested  our  heated  animals.  The  sand-swept  Sierra 
del  Pinto  was  opposite  us,  distant,  perhaps,  ten  miles.  In 
these  mountains  there  is  no  known  water.  Fortunately 
they  seemed  to  break  entirely  away  toward  the  northeast, 
leaving  a  desert  sweep  of  ten  or  twelve  miles  intervening 
before  the  rise  of  the  Cocupa  Sierras,  a  northwesterly  con- 
tinuation of  the  range.  For  this  gap  we  were  bound.  Some- 
where beyond  it  lay  the  Hardy,  a  tributary  of  the  Colorado 
River.  Just  how  far  beyond  was  a  question  for  our  per- 
sonal solution,  this  being  a  region  not  exemplified  on  the 
maps  and  frankly  dreaded  by  Mexicans  and  Indians,  be- 
cause of  its  extreme  heat  and  absolute  lack  of  water-holes. 

Eight  months  earlier  I  had  spent  a  night  burning  a  signal 
fire  to  save  the  hunter  lost  on  this  very  desert,  and  the  ensu- 
ing afternoon  had  been  advised  by  the  ranchero  Juan,  an  ex- 
perienced guide,  that  it  was  so  dangerous  a  region  that  he 
had  never  dared  venture  upon  It;  his  friend  Denton  had, 
indeed,  made  the  passage  successfully,  In  four  days'  time, 
but  Denton  had  been  favored  by  rainy,  wintry  weather. 


297 


298     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

Although  this  four-day  story  had  seemed  fishy,  I  recollected 
that  Pattie,  the  noted  trapper,  had  nearly  succumbed  to 
thirst  somewhere  in  this  section,  which  he  afterwards  char- 
acterized as  the  most  dangerous  portion  of  his  ten  thousand 
mile  ride  from  Kentucky  to  the  Californias  and  return.  On 
the  other  hand,  across  this  desert  in  former  times  stretched 
the  war  trail  by  which  the  Catarina  Yumas  reached  the 
Colorado  and  Gila  River  country;  moreover,  over  these 
very  sands  Filibuster  Walker  and  his  tall  warriors  had 
marched  in  April,  1854,  and  sixty  years  earlier,  Arrilliga, 
the  adventurous  Spanish  Governor,  had  made  the  trip  in 
safety.  Furthermore,  I  was  satisfied  that  native  vaqueros 
had  occasionally  done  the  distance,  and  in  less  than  four 
days. 

The  time  of  the  year  was  all  that  really  disturbed  me,  for 
we  were  thoroughly  well  prepared.  The  Colonel's  life  had 
been  a  succession  of  hardships  that  fitted  him  for  such  a 
venture  as  this.  I  was  in  superb  condition.  Our  stock — 
two  riding  mules  and  five  young  pack  burros — were  fairly 
fresh,  and  with  only  two  hundred  and  sixty  pounds  of  cargo 
among  them  the  burros  had  the  lightest  of  packs;  in  fact, 
each  day  some  one  of  them  was  permitted  to  travel  without 
any  load.  Of  water  we  had  ten  gallons,  contained  in  three 
covered  canteens  and  in  one  five  gallon  wine  cask.  More- 
over, I  had  tucked  away  a  yard  and  a  half  of  rubber  tubing 
with  which,  in  case  of  supreme  urgency,  I  hoped  to  be  able 
to  distil  salt  water.  Of  every  drop  of  the  ten  gallons,  we 
were  most  chary,  however,  for,  doubtless,  three  days  would 
elapse  before  we  could  replenish  our  supply.  And  without 
water?  Well,  south  of  the  Imperial  country  they  say  that 
on  an  ordinary  August  day  along  the  Colorado  Desert  a 
pedestrian  can  last  perhaps  eight  hours  without  water — then 
come  insane  delusions,  harbingers  of  death  by  thirst.  In 
his  deluded  stage,  the  wretched  sufferer,  divesting  himself 


THE  REGION  OF  THE  COLORADO  299 


of  all  clothing,  seeks  to  plunge  into  splashing  pools  just 
beyond  his  reach. 

After  an  hour's  nooning  we  resumed  our  journey,  travel- 
ing due  north  across  the  desert.  Though  four  hours  of 
this  course  brought  us  to  the  point  of  the  Pintos,  we  found 
to  our  alarm  that  we  could  neither  cross  the  ridge  nor 
swing  immediately  around  the  point.  We  had  come  upon 
an  encrusted  bed  of  sand  so  completely  undermined  and  so 
thoroughly  honey-combed  by  burrowing  creatures  that  our 
stock  stumbled  and  sank  to  their  bellies.  Alarmed,  unable 
to  advance,  they  balked  and  floundered  helplessly.  Retreat, 
also,  became  difficult,  for  the  sand  had  already  begun  to 
cave  in  about  the  deep  trail  which  we  had  made.  To  add 
to  the  confusion,  the  obscurity  of  the  twilight  limited  the 
range  of  our  vision,  while  frequent  angry  whirrings  from  dis- 
turbed **side-winders"  admonished  us  to  avoid  dismounting 
and  searching  too  curiously.  After  floundering  hopelessly 
about,  we  swung  well  out  to  the  left,  but  even  there  the  trav- 
eling was  so  heavy  that  by  8  130  in  the  evening  we  were 
forced  to  consider  our  animals  and  make  camp  as  best  we 
might  in  the  scorching  sand.  This  upset  our  plans  for  cov- 
ering a  goodly  distance  in  the  cooler  temperature  of  the 
night. 

After  scratching  over  a  level  spot  with  our  cleaning  rods 
so  as  to  dislodge  any  possible  ''side-winders,"  tarantulas, 
scorpions  or  other  local  residents  whose  company  might 
prove  undesirable,  we  stretched  out  with  our  blankets  be- 
neath us  and  had  a  light,  non-thirst  producing  supper  of 
hard  tack,  cold  broiled  mountain  sheep  and  lemonade.  Our 
poor  beasts,  meanwhile,  were  quick  to  sniff  the  water.  In- 
deed, crowding  about  us  they  made  such  pitiable  efforts  to 
tell  of  their  thirst  that  we  had  not  the  heart  to  carry  out  our 
intention  of  giving  them  no  water  until  morning.  During 
our  journey  across  the  San  Felipe  Desert,  they  had  learned 


300     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

to  drink  from  a  sauce-pan  and  now,  with  glad  subdued 
whinnies,  each  sought  eagerly  his  small  portion  and  then 
plead  for  more.  We  dared  not  humor  them,  however,  for 
on  the  following  day  water  would  be  more  absolutely  nec- 
essary for  them  and,  careful  though  we  had  been,  the 
Colonel  and  I  had  already  consumed  two  gallons  in  the 
fourteen  hours  since  leaving  the  ttnajas.  Truly,  the  dry 
heat  on  these  southern  deserts  has  a  wonderful  way  of 
bringing  the  perspiration  from  a  traveler,  leaving  him  so 
parched  that  his  whole  system  calls  constantly  for  great 
gulps  of  water. 

Though  we  found  immediate  sleep  our  slumbers  were 
frequently  disturbed.  Winnie,  a  wayward,  silver  gray 
burro,  at  once  the  youngest  and  tallest  in  our  train,  was  the 
offender.  Again  and  again  did  she  rub  her  soft  nose  against 
one  or  the  other  of  us,  pleading  for  a  chance  at  the  water 
cask  which  rested  between  us.  About  midnight  a  slight 
breeze  sprang  up.  An  hour  later  the  air  grew  fresh  enough 
for  a  thin  blanket  to  be  acceptable.  Yet  even  in  the  last 
hours  of  the  silent  desert  night  the  mighty  waste  of  sand 
retained  the  heat  of  the  evening  as  though  the  desert  were 
some  huge  ash-covered  bed  of  embers  only  waiting  the  first 
breath  of  a  new  day  before  breaking  forth  into  flames. 

We  were  in  the  saddle  by  6  A.  M.  Even  then  the  mer- 
cury registered  78  degrees,  giving  us  grim  warning  of  what 
to  expect  at  mid-day.  For  the  first  league  we  traveled  over 
a  succession  of  sand  dunes  which  were  so  honey-combed 
with  underground  run-ways  of  burrowing  creatures  that  our 
animals  again  and  again  broke  through  the  upper  crust  and 
became  engulfed  In  the  treacherous  sand.  Then  the  wel- 
come sight  of  a  lake  dead  ahead  and  extending  far  to  the 
northwest  gave  us  new  life.  Alas!  on  nearer  approach  the 
sheet  of  water  receded  and  we  rode  upon  damp  salty  flats, 
the  scene  of  some  recent  overflow.    To  the  northwest  we 


THE  REGION  OF  THE  COLORADO 


301 


could  still  see  the  glimmering  sheen.  Presently,  close  to  our 
right,  appeared  a  small  pond.  As  a  family  of  curlew  were 
disporting  along  the  shore,  we  concluded  that  this  was  no 
delusive  water.  Dismounting,  therefore,  I  hurried  over 
with  the  intention  of  having  a  long  drink.  A  single  taste 
sufficed.  The  pond  was  as  salty  as  the  ocean!  While  I 
stared  about  in  disappointment,  the  curlew  approached 
within  a  few  feet,  studying  with  every  evidence  of  wonder. 

After  resuming  our  march,  we  shortly  found  the  softness 
of  the  ground  to  be  such  that  our  animals  could  not  travel 
over  it.  ^Tordy,"  ejaculated  the  Colonel,  as  I  led  off  on  an 
easterly  tack,  *'in  figurin'  on  the  desert  I  warn't  countin'  on 
mudP^  More  of  these  bogs  soon  made  it  necessary  for  us 
to  change  our  course  to  the  northeast.  In  this  direction  we 
continued  until  early  afternoon. 

The  intervening  hours  were  desperately  trying.  Nature, 
herself,  seemed  bent  on  our  undoing.  The  fiery  shafts  of  a 
relentless  sun  beat  down  upon  our  heads.  The  hot,  saturated 
earth  again  and  again  gave  way  beneath  our  feet.  The  air 
was  stifling,  murky.  Mirages  concealed  the  true  horizon. 
Thickets  and  strange  weird  objects  arose  at  either  hand 
only  to  disappear  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  The  glassy 
surface  of  a  broad  lake  glittered  in  the  sunlight  before  us, 
its  unstable  shore-line  ever  receding,  while  a  shimmering  sea 
crept  stealthily  in  our  wake.  Deceived  by  our  eyes,  hemmed 
in  by  the  unreal,  we  came  to  doubt  the  stability  of  our 
minds. 

For  a  day  and  a  half  the  very  heat  had  made  us  un- 
wontedly  uncommunicative.  Now  I  felt  an  inclination  to 
shriek  out  meaningless  nothings,  while  the  Colonel,  who  had 
over-taxed  his  strength  in  securing  his  last  mountain  sheep, 
began  to  voice  half  delirious  recollections  of  the  days  when 
he  rode  with  Moseby  and  Quantrell.  As  he  was  unconscious 
of  his  rambling,  it  is  possible  that  I,  too,  talked  queerly. 


302      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


Splendid  horseman  though  he  was,  several  times  my  com- 
panion reeled  in  his  saddle  until  I  feared  that  he  would  fall. 
Once  I  inquired  concerning  his  condition,  but,  though  he 
admitted  that  his  head  and  stomach  were  troubling  him,  he 
uttered  no  complaint,  nor  did  he  once  blame  me  for  bringing 
him  into  such  a  region.  For  my  own  part  I  slouched  for- 
ward in  my  saddle  and  endeavored  to  keep  control  of  my 
mind;  for  the  hot  air  pressed  close  about  my  head  like  a 
tightly  drawn  iron  band  until  I  felt  that  the  very  sutures 
must  soon  fly  apart. 

The  ground  over  which  we  were  passing  was  thickly 
strewn  with  glittering  salt.  Save  for  pools  of  salty  water, 
patches  of  salt  grass,  infrequent  bushes  and  occasional 
heaps  of  driftwood,  it  was  a  barren,  unbroken  plain  of  sand 
and  sediment.  The  natural  situation  was  easy  to  compre- 
hend. We  were  close  on  the  heels  of  an  overflow  of  the 
Hardy  River,  a  stream  usually  impregnated  w^ith  salt  from 
the  mud  volcanoes  at  its  source  and  from  the  tidewater 
running  up  from  the  Gulf  of  California.  With  the  advanc- 
ing hours  I  became  alarmed,  fearing  that  we  might  find  our 
way  blocked  by  a  large  body  of  this  overflow,  which  would 
so  delay  us  that  our  water  supply  might  become  exhausted 
ere  we  could  discover  more. 

At  noon  we  called  a  brief  halt  and,  having  broached  the 
water  cask,  gave  each  animal  a  half  pint  drink  from  a 
saucepan.  They  whinnied  and  begged  for  more,  but  we 
had  become  sternly  inexorable.  An  hour  later  the  thirsty 
creatures,  breaking  from  the  line  of  march,  rushed  over 
toward  a  small  pond  a  few  rods  distant.  Their  instinct  was 
correct.  The  water  was  fresh,  brackish  certainly,  but  none 
the  less  acceptable  to  them.  A  thunder  storm  had  passed 
that  way.  Finding  a  thicket  of  mesquit  a  league  farther 
on,  under  its  shade  we  rested  until  five  o'clock — with  the 
thermometer  registering  120  degrees! 


THE  REGION  OF  THE  COLORADO  3^3 


On  resuming  our  march  we  pursued  a  northwesterly 
course  which  shortly  brought  us  to  a  corral,  a  shack  and  a 
wire  gauze  frame  house.  Raised  above  the  level  of  the 
ground  both  buildings  were  protected  by  a  small  levee.  Be- 
yond them  flowed  a  sluggish,  muddy  stream  a  hundred  yards 
in  width.  We  had  reached  the  Hardy,  the  largest  river  in 
all  Lower  California !  Also,  though  no  one  was  at  hand  to 
greet  us,  we  had  stumbled  on  the  **Salada"  cattle  camp. 
With  a  feeling  of  relief  we  removed  saddles  and  packs 
from  our  exhausted  animals  and  prepared  supper.  Pres- 
ently a  vaquero  appeared,  and  from  him  we  gathered  that 
the  junction  of  the  Hardy  and  the  Colorado  Rivers  was  but 
a  league  and  a  half  to  the  southeast;  that  the  last  overflow 
of  the  Hardy  was  just  receding,  and  that  at  the  time  of 
these  periodic  floods,  tidal  bores  or  waves  from  four  to  five 
feet  in  height  came  rolling  up  from  the  Gulf  of  California, 
inundating  the  entire  country.  Furthermore,  he  stated  that 
he  had  come  in  from  Yuma  via  Sonora  and  that  we  could 
not  get  out  by  any  other  way. 

The  ensuing  morning,  Sunday,  August  27th,  we  left  our 
outfit  at  the  Salada  and  rode  down  to  the  junction  of  the 
rivers.  Here  we  dismounted,  and  while  the  Colonel  prowled 
about  in  search  of  an  old  boat  of  which  the  vaquero  had 
told  us,  I  contentedly  seated  myself  on  the  high  bank  of 
the  Colorado  and  enjoyed  my  surroundings. 

Twenty  feet  below  me  flowed  a  muddy  stream  not  over 
a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  in  breadth.  Beyond  this,  on  the 
Sonora  side,  glistened  a  wide  stretch  of  mud  flats  reaching 
back  to  a  low  grass-grown  bank,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  be- 
yond. Over  these  flats,  long-horned  Mexican  cattle  and 
snorting  mustangs  were  coming  and  going  in  continuous  pro- 
cession. One  by  one  they  would  halt  at  the  water's  edge, 
drink  deeply,  then  face  about  and  flounder  eastward 
again.    Meanwhile,  circling  overhead  and  dotting  the  shore 


304     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

line,  myriads  of  raucous  sea  fowl  and  long-legged  waders 
were  making  a  veritable  Bedlam  with  their  quarreling  and 
squawking,  while  leaping  silver-hued  fish  incessantly  dis- 
turbed the  surface  of  the  river.  Heedless  of  the  stock  and 
undisturbed  by  our  presence,  no  less  than  nine  coyotes  pa- 
trolled the  flats,  running  in  and  out  among  the  larger  birds 
in  restless  search  for  food.  Frequently  they  would  all 
congregate  in  a  snarling  crowd  about  the  remains  of  a  half 
grown  whale.  The  vaquero  had  told  us  that  this  leviathan 
had  strayed  up  from  the  Gulf,  lured  on  by  the  sweet  voice 
of  a  wild  burro.  In  this  story  the  Colonel  expressed  entire 
belief.  Said  he,  ''That  whale  wanted  a  choice  meal.  Burro 
meat  is  the  sweetest  flesh  there  is."  On  this  statement  I 
can  offer  no  comment,  as  yet  having  had  no  occasion  to  in- 
vestigate the  merits  of  burro  steak. 

To  the  south  and  southeast  lay  the  Sierra  del  Pinto. 
Early  in  January  I  had  stood  on  a  southerly  point  in  these 
mountains  and  looked  down  upon  the  mouth  of  the  Colo- 
rado River  with  its  broad,  glistening,  reddish-white  shores. 
Now,  as  then,  I  could  but  marvel  over  the  fact  that  while 
this  was  one  of  the  first  sections  ever  explored  on  the  Ameri- 
can continent,  it  Is  to-day  one  of  the  least  known.  In  1539, 
centuries  ago,  Francisco  de  UUoa,  an  admiral  of  Cortez, 
discovered  the  mouth  of  the  Colorado  while  searching  for 
the  Northwest  Passage!  A  year  later  Hernando  de  Alar- 
con,  admiral  to  the  Spanish  Viceroy  Mendoza  and  compan- 
ion of  Francis  Vasquez  de  Coronado,  arrived  at  the  head- 
waters of  the  Gulf.  *'And  when  we  were  come,"  de  Alarcon 
wrote,  **to  the  flats  and  shoals  .  .  .  the  pilots  and  the 
rest  of  the  company  would  have  had  us  do  as  Captain  UUoa 
did,  and  have  returned  back  again.  But  because  your  Lord- 
ship commanded  me  that  I  should  bring  you  the  secret  of 
that  Gulf,  I  resolved  that  I  should  not  cease  for  anything. 

.    .    .    After  this  sort  we  came  to  the  very  bottom  of 


THE  REGION  OF  THE  COLORADO  39Si 


the  bay,  where  we  found  a  mighty  river  which  ran  with 
so  great  fury  of  a  stream  that  we  could  hardly  sail  against 
it."  And  small  wonder  that  the  old  rover  found  the  sailing 
difficult,  for  the  tide  here  ascends  full  twelve  leagues  up  the 
river,  battling — until  the  recent  diversion  of  the  Colorado 
into  the  Salton  Sea — with  the  furious  current  of  the  mighty 
Colorado  and  producing  a  marvelous  tidal  bore,  the  lowest 
thereof  being  three  feet  and  the  highest  some  twenty. 

In  1 72 1,  Juan  Ugarte,  the  Jesuit  Padre,  sailed  into  these 
waters  in  his  Triunfo  de  la  Cruz  and  noted  with  awe  the 
terriffic  velocity  of  the  bores  of  the  river.  A  quarter  of  a 
century  later  the  illustrious  Padre  Consag  passed  close  to 
certain  reddish  marshes,  probably  the  ones  which  I  observed 
in  January,  and  continuing  onward  in  canoes,  ascended  the 
river  until  forced  back  by  the  tidal  bore,  some  seven  leagues 
up  stream.  His  report  served  the  map  makers  until  near 
the  close  of  the  nineteenth  century! 

In  the  month  of  January,  1826,  the  intrepid  Pattie  party, 
their  horses  stampeded  by  the  Yumas,  recklessly  descended 
the  Colorado  in  dugouts,  trapping  beaver  on  the  way  and 
setting  the  first  fashions  amongst  the  Cocupa  squaws  by 
offering  them  their  hunting  shirts  and  modestly  intimating 
that  it  was  not  good  form  for  woman  to  go  unadorned! 
Finally,  their  camp  was  flooded  by  "a  high  ridge  of  water 
over  which  came  the  sea  current  combing  down  like  water 
over  a  mill  dam.  .  .  The  fierce  billows  shut  us  in  from 
below,  the  river  current  from  above,  and  murderous  sav- 
ages on  either  hand  on  shore."  About  the  same  time  Lieu- 
tenant R.  W.  Hardy  of  the  English  Navy  discovered  the 
False,  or  Hardy's,  Colorado.  Thirty  years  later  Lieuten- 
ant Ives,  an  American  officer,  passed  up  the  Colorado 
on  a  voyage  of  exploration,  giving  no  attention,  however,  to 
the  Hardy.  If  I  have  correctly  welded  together  Indian  tales 
and  old  records,  the  California  and  Sonora  filibustering 


3o6     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


expedition  of  William  Walker  went  to  pieces  in  April,  1854, 
immediately  after  its  disastrous  attempt  to  cross  the  Colo- 
rado just  below  its  junction  with  the  Hardy. 

Notwithstanding  this  list  of  noted  visitors  with  its  hall 
mark  of  olden  days,  modern  knowledge  of  the  lower  delta 
region  of  the  Colorado  is  so  limited  that  the  Hardy  River 
is  rarely  found  on  even  the  more  complete  maps.  Indeed,  it 
does  not  appear  even  on  the  recent  charts  of  Lower  Cali- 
fornia prepared  by  the  Hydrographlc  Office  of  the  United 
States  Navy.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  Hardy  carries  a  large 
body  of  water  and  winds  along  a  tortuous  course  over  fifty 
leagues  in  length.  The  distance  from  its  junction  with  the 
Colorado  River  to  the  mouth  of  the  latter  is — the  mean- 
derings  of  the  river  considered — full  fifteen  miles.  The  air 
line  distance  is  vastly  less. 

After  the  Colonel  had  found  the  boat  and  a  long  limb,  a 
drift-wood  board  and  a  tin  can,  we  boldly  embarked  upon 
the  turgid  Colorado.  While  I  paddled  vigorously  with  the 
board,  he  alternately  balled  and  poled.  In  this  manner  we 
attained  the  Sonora  shore  in  safety.  Our  landing,  however, 
so  annoyed  the  coyotes  that  three  of  them  waded — a  possi- 
bility consequent  upon  the  diversion  of  the  Colorado  at  this 
point — across  the  river  just  above  its  junction  with  the 
Hardy !  Amazed  at  this  sight  my  companion  suddenly  de- 
cided that  it  would  suit  him  to  be  able  to  say  that  he  had 
waded  the  Colorado.  Unfortunately  for  his  ambition,  he 
chose  a  place  below  the  junction  of  the  rivers  where  mid- 
stream developed  a  seven-foot  depth  that  called  for  the  ex- 
ercise of  his  swimming  abilities. 

In  the  afternoon  we  returned  to  the  Salada  and,  after 
packing  our  burros,  set  forth  for  the  Cocupa  Indian  settle- 
ments up  the  Hardy.  The  remainder  of  the  day  and  the 
major  portion  of  the  ensuing  forenoon — nine  hours.  In  fact, 
of  steady  travel — wore  away,  however,  before  we  had  so 


THE  REGION  OF  THE  COLORADO  3^7 


much  as  reached  the  Indian  trail  along  the  high  lands  off  the 
northeastern  slope  of  the  Cocupa  Sierras.  The  distance 
covered  amounted,  perhaps,  to  fifteen  miles!  Ordinarily 
we  would  have  had  an  easy  wagon  road  every  rod  of  the 
way.  As  it  was  we  had  a  close  shave  getting  through  at 
all.  Again  and  again  our  animals  bogged.  Here  thickets 
of  thorny  mesquit  barred  the  way,  there  tangled  weeds  and 
stinging  nettles  defied  us;  now  we  strode  through  dense 
masses  of  tules  growing  five  and  ten  feet  above  our  heads, 
and  again  we  found  ourselves  compelled  sullenly  to  make  a 
wide  detour  to  avoid  some  swamp  or  lagoon.  Riding  was 
out  of  the  question  after  the  first  few  miles,  but  our  animals 
followed  our  lead  right  gamely,  even  when  called  upon 
to  wade  in  water  to  their  shoulders. 

Monday  afternoon  tried  our  endurance  to  the  limit. 
Gradually,  under  the  oppressive,  stifling  heat  of  the  biting, 
tropical  sun,  our  minds  ceased  to  consider  poise  and  pro- 
portion and  to  exercise  self-control.  Sullen,  overheated, 
lacerated  by  thorns,  we  were  quite  ready  to  see  a  malignant 
personal  animosity  in  each  tangled  growth  that  opposed 
our  passage.  From  querulous  ill-temper,  we  passed  to 
smouldering  anger  that  lent  a  viciousness  to  every  slashing, 
brush-cutting  blow  of  our  long  Mexican  blades.  Vindic- 
tively we  hacked  and  tore  through  the  thickets  with  the 
savagery  that  marks  the  advance  of  the  wounded  tiger  as 
he  malevolently  rips  and  tears  each  vine  and  shrub  that  bars 
retreat  to  the  jungle.  Finally,  at  1 1  o'clock  we  came  out 
upon  a  plain  trail  at  the  base  of  and  paralleling  the  sierras. 
For  a  moment  we  paused  and  stared  at  one  another.  We 
were  plastered  with  mud  to  our  waists,  while  arms,  necks, 
chests,  hands  and  faces  were  bleeding  profusely  from  fre- 
quent contact  with  thorns  and  the  jagged  ends  of  broken 
branches.  Our  appearances  were  not  prepossessing.  The 
Colonel  was  the  first  to  speak:  'That  vaquero," 


3o8      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

he  sputtered,  *'said  we  couldn't  get  through  this  way  for 
a  week.  Seems  ter  me  we  look  like  we'd  gotten  through 
somethin'  already,  him." 

Though  the  Cocupa  Sierras  are  a  barren  range  of  moun- 
tains, rising  to  a  height  of  over  three  thousand  feet  without 
any  soil  save  crumbling  reddish-yellow  rock,  along  the  wel- 
come trail  at  their  base  we  noted  willows  and  green  grass. 
This  growth  is  due  to  the  proximity  of  the  Hardy,  which, 
in  places,  even  crowds  close  up  against  the  mountain  spurs. 
Very  shortly  we  found  deserted  Indian  remadas  or  arbors 
and  then  shacks,  some  of  which  were  the  most  substantial 
Indian  dwellings  I  had  seen  upon  the  peninsula. 

At  one  o'clock,  thoroughly  exhausted,  we  camped  near  a 
group  of  these  shacks  and  enjoyed  a  three  hours'  siesta. 
Then  we  pressed  on  again.  Our  trail  at  once  developed  into  a 
wagon  road,  but  we  quickly  lost  interest  in  roadways.  While 
resting  we  had  noted  a  yellowish  haze  hanging  over  the 
mountain  tops  to  our  left  and  heard  the  pelicans  complain- 
ing loudly  along  the  river.  The  Colonel  had  even  remarked 
on  our  fortune  in  being  off  the  desert,  since  it  was  doubt- 
less in  the  throes  of  a  dangerous  sand  storm.  Now,  in  five 
minutes'  time,  a  terrific  gale  came  sweeping  over  the  sierras 
driving  down  a  yellowish  sandy  mist  which  totally  hid  the 
sun  and  placed  us  in  obscurity.  Breaking  from  the  road,  our 
animals  stood  cowering  in  the  brush.  Only  w^ith  the  stimu- 
lus of  spurs  and  heavy  curb-bits  could  we  force  our  riding 
mules  to  breast  the  storm.  Meanwhile,  a  yelling,  half 
naked  Indian,  his  long  locks  whipping  his  bare  neck  and 
brown  shoulders,  unexpectedly  appeared  in  a  meadow  be- 
fore us.  Bending  low  over  his  half-crazed  mustang,  he 
wildly  dashed  after  a  stampeding  herd  of  terrified  horses. 
Joining  their  shrill  cries  to  the  general  alarm,  the  water 
birds,  that  had  been  circling  high  above  the  river,  closed 
their  wings  and  dropped  downward  like  great  white  stones. 


THE  REGION  OF  THE  COLORADO  3^9 


The  air  became  icy.  With  this  the  situation  grew  beyond 
my  comprehension.  The  sudden  change  had  been  too  com- 
plete. The  very  air,  discolored,  heavy,  grating,  had  become 
possessed  with  strange,  uncanny  moanings  as  though  Nature 
were  rousing  herself  to  some  weird,  unwonted  action.  Tin- 
gling with  cold,  whipped  by  the  wind,  cloaked  in  depressing 
yellow  gloom,  moving  in  the  midst  of  a  setting  appalling 
beyond  that  of  any  storm  or  earthquake  I  had  ever  expe- 
rienced, I  could  only  blankly  wonder  what  further  play  of 
the  elements  we  were  about  to  witness.  I  had  not  long  to 
wait.  Suddenly  the  world  seemed  a-quiver.  Then  the 
heavens  resounded  with  a  whirling,  deafening  crash  of 
thunder.  Even  as  the  last  reverberations  died  away,  jolt- 
ing and  rumbling  into  the  far  distance,  a  blaze  of  brilliant 
white  light  flared  weirdly  down  through  the  cloaking  ob- 
scurity. Another  instant  and  a  drenching  torrent  of  rain 
swirled  upon  us  as  though  the  very  clouds  had  ripped 
asunder. 

For  two  hours  the  violence  of  the  storm  in  no  wise  abated. 
During  that  time  we  did  not  advance  a  league.  With  diffi- 
culty we  kept  our  mules  on  the  highway  and  rode  against 
the  burros,  urging  them  from  their  shelters  in  the  brush. 
We  lost  sight  of  one  another.  We  could  not  hear  each 
other's  voices.  Finally,  passing  through  bars  In  a  brush 
fence,  I  arrived  at  three  shacks  built  of  upright  posts  and 
thatched  with  tule\  Within  were  gathered  a  crowd  of  long- 
haired, hideously  painted  Cocupa  Indians.  Dismounting,  I 
sought  the  protection  of  the  largest  shack  for  my  camera 
and  saddle-bags.  In  five  minutes  the  Colonel  joined  me. 
In  half  an  hour  the  rain  ceased,  the  clouds  vanished  and 
we  saw  the  setting  sun  sink  behind  the  Cocupa  Sierras. 

As  the  only  one  of  our  new  acquaintances  who  possessed 
any  knowledge  of  Spanish  accepted  the  storm  without  com- 
ment we  stifled  our  curiosity,  and  upon  the  cessation  of  the 


3IO      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


downpour,  calmly  pitched  our  tents,  a  few  rods  from  the 
shacks,  made  a  fire  and  began  to  dry  our  blankets  and  cloth- 
ing. In  consequence  of  a  severe  kick  from  a  burro  the  Col- 
onel was  suffering  painfully. 

In  thinking  over  the  strange  storm  I  decided  that  it  was 
possibly  a  combination  of  a  sand  and  thunder  storm;  that 
the  fierce  current  of  the  former  had  come  over  the  sierras 
laden  with  yellow  sand  and  had  been,  in  crossing,  deflected 
upward  to  a  chilling  altitude  from  which  it  had  swung  down- 
ward in  the  van  of  a  thunder  storm.   This  is  but  a  surmise. 

While  gathering  firewood  I  saw  another  sight  peculiar 
to  the  Hardy  country,  a  toad  as  large  as  a  "cottontail"  rab- 
bit! As  I  neglected  to  follow  the  Colonel's  advice  and 
**rope"  the  batrachian,  it  disappeared  during  the  night.  His 
further  suggestion,  ''Since  you  haint  got  its  pictur,  don't  talk 
about  that  critter  in  the  States.  Folks  there'd  say  you  wuz 
an  infernal  liar,"  shall  therefore  receive  due  respect  and  I 
will  leave  the  toad  for  some  scientist  to  find  and  classify. 

Tuesday  forenoon  we  traveled  northward  and  northwest- 
erly, exploring  the  country  of  the  Cocupas.  We  found  a 
great  number  of  Indian  shacks,  half  of  which  were  deserted, 
the  occupants  having  gone  either  to  the  southwest  for  pinons 
or  northward  to  work  for  the  whites  along  the  Border.  All 
of  these  shacks  were  built  in  fields  enclosed  by  brush  fences. 
Although  the  soil — alluvial  bottom  land  along  the  Hardy — • 
seemed  as  fertile  as  the  most  productive  acres  in  the  valleys 
of  the  Sacramento  or  Mississippi,  only  small  portions  of  the 
fields  were  under  cultivation.  Except  for  occasional  patches 
of  melons  or  corn,  we  saw  no  growing  crops.  As  the  Col- 
onel remarked,  ''With  fishin'  handy  an'  corn  a-plenty,  why 
should  they  plant  more'n  they  need?" 

Although  the  Indians  we  had  seen  Monday  evening  were 
clothed  with  the  overalls  and  calicos  of  civilization,  these 
that  we  now  saw  evidently  had  forgotten  the  admonition  of 


THE  REGION  OF  THE  COLC«ADO  3^^ 


Pattie  and  his  trappers,  for  the  children  and  the  old  men 
and  women  displayed  the  most  limited  wardrobes.  A  khaki 
coat — frequently  with  two  or  three  gaudy  buttons — a 
breech-clout  and  a  smile  sufficed  for  the  grandfathers  while 
their  helpmates  wore  a  narrow  girdle  supporting  three  or 
four  short,  triangular  flaps  of  rags — and  entirely  dispensed 
with  coat  and  smile.  The  little  children  made  the  most  of 
the  smile.  It  was  all  they  hadl  But  no,  I  am  doing  an 
injustice  to  the  sartorial  adornments  of  these  youngsters, 
for  nearly  all  of  them  wore  bead  necklaces  so  arranged  as 
to  fall  in  three  successive  loops,  the  lowest  one  reaching 
almost  to  their  plump,  brown  little  stomachs.  Although 
to  my  great  delight,  we  met  several  slender,  erect,  copper- 
hued  braves  as  fierce  looking  and  as  handsome  as  any  Indian 
warrior  of  the  story  books,  the  greater  number  were  dark, 
thick-set,  heavy  featured  people,  duplicates  of  other  Cocu- 
pas  whom  I  had  met  about  Calexico  and  Yuma  a  year  or 
two  before.  All  wore  their  hair  long.  Several  of  the  older 
and  apparently  leading  men  kept  their  locks  drawn  about 
the  crown  of  the  head  like  a  turban. 

To  my  extreme  regret,  men,  women  and  children  pro- 
tested so  vigorously  against  the  use  of  my  camera  that  a  few 
old  people  and  some  retreating  figures  were  the  only 
"snaps'*  I  could  secure.  We  came  across  one  couple  re- 
puted to  be  over  a  hundred  years  old.  Their  reddish-brown 
skin  hung  in  folds,  their  flesh  had  worn  away  until  the 
lower  thigh  bones  were  visible ;  their  eyes  were  sunken.  The 
brave  was  totally  blind.  And  yet,  on  our  arrival  at  their 
shack,  the  old  fellow  tottered  forward,  protectlngly,  before 
his  mate,  while  she,  poor,  shrivelled,  doubled  up  ancient, 
turned  her  dim  eyes  tenderly  upon  him,  ready  to  guide  his 
faltering  steps. 

Although  innumerable  water  fowl  congregate  along  the 
Hardy  and  Colorado  and  some  few  "mule"  deer  and  wild 


312      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


hogs  live  in  the  cane-breaks  of  the  delta,  the  Cocupas  are 
practically  without  fire-arms.  They  are  well  enough  sup- 
plied, however,  with  two  kinds  of  bows.  With  the  smaller 
they  kill  birds  and  rabbits,  while  their  long  bows  will  send  a 
shaft  through  a  *'mule"  deer.  Tuesday  morning  I  engaged 
in  an  archery  contest  with  a  Cocupa.  We  each  discharged 
three  arrows  at  a  board  two  feet  square  set  upright  one 
hundred  paces  from  us.  Using  a  small  bow,  he  scored  two 
hits ;  my  own  record  I  refrain  from  recording ! 

Finally,  after  seeing  forty-seven  different  Indians,  and 
having  learned  that  few  of  the  tribe*  were  at  Pozo  Vicente, 
the  rancheria  a  half  a  league  farther  up  the  river,  we  pur- 
chased two  dozen  plump  ears  of  green  corn  and  turned 
away  to  the  southwest  with  the  intent  of  finding  a  salt  lake 
to  which  the  Indians  had  frequently  referred.  In  this  corn 
transaction  we  ascertained  that  the  Cocupas  are  ^'sound 
money"  people,  counting  the  Mexican  peso  as  half  a  dollar! 

We  traveled  steadily,  gradually  leaving  the  lowlands  and 
climbing  into  the  Cocupa  Sierras,  where  we  found  an  old 
trail  of  which  the  Indians  had  advised  us.  Following  this 
we  wound  through  a  mountain  pass  and  down  upon  the 
Cocupa  Desert  beyond.  In  the  late  twilight  we  halted, 
abruptly.  A  long  narrow  body  of  water  barred  our  farther 
advance.  We  had  found  Laguna  Maquata,  the  Laguna 
Salada,  or  Salt  Lake,  of  which  the  Indians  had  spoken. 

After  dismounting  we  perceived  to  our  amazement  that 
we  had  chanced  upon  the  best  camping  ground  either  of  us 
had  ever  seen  on  any  desert.  Numerous  bunches  of  galleta 
or  desert  grass  awaited  our  hungry  stock,  a  small.  Inviting 
pool  of  clear  water  marked  the  passage  of  the  thunder 
storm,  the  sand  was  firm  and  clean  while  the  air  had  that 
rare  sweetness  only  known  to  those  who  have  wandered 
upon  the  desert  Immediately  after  a  fall  of  rain. 


*  Note  D:  Appendix. 


THE  REGION  OF  THE  COLORADO 


**When  you  rekolect,"  muttered  the  Colonel,  staring 
about  in  pleased  surprise,  *'that  after  '96  all  this  country 
seen  no  rain  for  seven  year,  you'll  allow  we're  in  dead  luck." 

While  my  worthy  comrade  picketed  the  animals,  I  pre- 
pared a  supper  of  steaming  hot  corn  on  the  cob,  potatoes 
boiled  with  their  jackets  on,  broiled  **jerked"  venison,  flap- 
jacks and  wild  honey.  His  work  finished,  the  Colonel  threw 
himself  down  on  his  blankets,  observing,  with  interest  the 
progress  of  my  culinary  operations.  Presently  he  chuck- 
led, softly.  **Out  with  it,  pardner,"  I  ventured,  by  way  of 
encouragement. 

wuz  jest  a-thinkin',"  he  began,  **oncst  in  the  seventies 
when  I  wuz  with  a  cattle  outfit  in  Wyoming,  we  hearn  tell 
of  a  whoop  up  dance  that  wuz  comin'  off  at  Cheyenne.  Us 
fellers  wuz  great  hands  at  dancin' — even  usto  learn  the 
squaws  to  polkey.  So  we  figgered  on  goin'  in  a  bunch,  an' 
when  one  of  the  new  boys,  a  shy  young  feller,  said  he  wuz 
no  hands  with  ladies  and  wouldn't  go,  we  told  him  ter  git 
a  starch  collar  an'  come  along  pronto.  So  all  hands  went, 
but  at  the  dance  the  shy  un  set  'round  too  skeered  to 
pound  the  floor.  Then  I  fixed  it  with  a  young  school  marm 
I  knew,  and  took  him  up  an'  give  him  a  knock  down.  Well, 
a-try'n  to  waltz  he  trod  all  over  her,  shameful,  an'  never 
said  a  word  sociable  like,  but  jes  looked  so  glum  you'd  a- 
thought  he'd  lost  his  best  horse.  So  she  up  an'  says,  *Mr. 
Harvey,'  says  she  Vhat's  you  thinkin'  about?'  At  furst 
he  didn't  answer.  Then  he  sees  how  sympathetic  like  she 
looks,  an'  he  busts  right  out,  *Oh,  mam,'  says  he,  'I  do  feel 
so  solemcully  like  in  here.  I  miss  my  "chaps,"  "taps"  and 
"latigo  straps"!'  "* 

The  Colonel  paused  a  moment,  then  continued,  "When  I 

*  These  three — chapparejos,  or  leather  riding  breeches,  tapaderas,  or 
leather  stirrup  covers,  and  latigo  straps,  the  straps  with  which  a  saddle 
'^inch''  is  tied  to  the  iron  rings  of  the  saddle — are  essentials  to  the 
frontier  cowman. 


314      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


see  you  in  January,  you  looked  thin  and  wuz  way  off  on  your 
feed.  At  the  table  I  passed  you  the  onions  and  you  said 
you  didn't  eat  onions.  The  other  day  on  the  desert  you 
wuz  munchin'  away  on  a  raw  onion  like  it  was  an  apple. 
Jest  now  I  was  a-thinkin'  that  when  you  get  back  to  the 
States  a-dressin'  up,  a-sleepin'  indoors  on  a  bed  an'  a-goin' 
to  an  orfice,  you'll  think  on  life  along  the  trail  an'  pretty 
soon  you'll  get  mighty  solemcuUy  for  you^ll  miss  your 
^chaps'  " 

The  sentence  was  left  unfinished.  For  an  instant  the  old 
trooper  raised  one  hand  warningly,  the  next  he  rolled  over 
behind  the  fire.  Out  from  the  distance  came  the  faint  jolt- 
ing of  a  loping  horse.  **Some  one's  on  our  trail,"  muttered 
the  Colonel,  ominously. 

The  prospect  didn't  please  me.  Why  should  any  one  be 
trailing  us?  Presently  we  could  hear  the  hoof  beats  of  a 
considerable  cavalcade;  at  this  the  Colonel  growled  sav- 
agely and  reaching  over  among  his  blankets  drew  out  his 
Leuger  from  its  holster.  Already  we  could  make  out  a  gray 
horse  with  darker  animals  following  in  single  file.  They 
were  not  a  hundred  yards  distant. 

^^Buenos  noches/'  roared  the  Colonel,  rising  to  his  feet. 

Instantly  the  approaching  line  swung  off  to  the  right, 
then  halted.  I  shouted  a  ''good  evening,"  first  In  Spanish, 
then  English.  There  was  no  response.  *'Cocupas,"  grunted 
the  Colonel,  slipping  his  revolver  into  Its  holster.  ''But  we'd 
better  bring  In  our  stock."  Within  five  minutes  they  were 
tied  Immediately  about  us.  Meantime,  fifty  steps  to  our 
right,  flickered  up  a  tiny  flame.  "Huh,"  said  my  companion, 
"three  bucks,  with  long  huntin'  bows,  two  squaws  an'  two 
kids.   Jest  a  pinon  party.    I'm  goln'  to  turn  In." 

Five  minutes  later  an  erect,  middle-aged  brave  appeared 
before  us.  His  proportions  were  superb;  his  features  clear 
cut  and  strikingly  handsome.    Unarmed  and  practically  un- 


THE  REGION  OF  THE  COLORADO  S^S. 


clothed,  his  peaceful  intent  was  further  evidenced  by  the 
gift  of  a  melon  and  by  his  attending  companion,  a  small, 
wide-eyed  boy.  I  gave  them  each  a  flap-jack  which  they  ate 
with  relish.  They  were  soon  followed  by  a  buxom  squaw 
leading  a  pretty  little  girl.  Later,  a  dark,  sturdy,  sinister- 
looking  young  buck  drifted  in  upon  us.  Squatting  close 
about  the  fire,  they  enjoyed  such  supper  as  I  gave  them.  A 
few  lumps  of  sugar  made  the  little  people  happy.  However, 
not  a  word  of  English  or  Spanish  could  we  get  from  any  of 
our  visitors.  Presently  we  cut  the  melon.  In  shape  it  re- 
sembled a  water  melon,  in  taste  the  '^nutmeg"  variety  of  the 
canteloupe.  The  Colonel  grimly  declined  a  slice,  but  as 
soon  as  the  Indians  began  nibbling  theirs,  I  fell  to. 

We  must  have  made  a  queer  scene  there  on  the  edge  of 
the  great  desert!  The  stolid,  bright-eyed,  copper-hued  In- 
dians crouching  by  the  fire,  my  grizzled  frontier  companion 
lying  on  his  blankets,  his  revolver  close  at  hand,  our 
shadowy  stock  munching  at  the  grass  about  us,  the  clear  sky 
high  above  with  the  pale  moon  and  glittering  stars.  Sud- 
denly, our  visitors  arose.  Then,  without  a  word  having 
been  said,  they  slipped  away  in  single  file.  The  Colonel, 
long  accustomed  to  and  little  interested  in  Indians,  fell 
asleep  at  once.  With  me  it  was  different.  I  had  enjoyed 
the  visit — and  I  felt  a  trifle  nervous  over  the  close  proximity 
of  our  neighbors. 

Finally,  at  eleven  o'clock,  after  building  up  the  fire  and 
opening  my  blankets,  I  examined  my  six-shooter,  prepara- 
tory to  sleep.  The  cylinder  refused  to  turn.  The  storm 
had  wet  and  rusted  the  mechanism.  Reaching  over  to  my 
saddle,  I  jerked  my  carbine  from  its  sheath  and  throwing  up 
the  muzzle  before  me,  jammed  a  cartridge  into  the  chamber. 
The  effect  was  instantaneous — and  unexpected.  At  the 
sharp  click  of  the  lever,  there  was  a  wild  commotion  among 
the  bunches  of  galleta  grass  toward  which  the  muzzle 


31 6     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

chanced  to  be  directed  and  a  dark  figure  threw  itself  into  a 
depression  of  the  sand  beyond.  The  rest  of  the  night  I  had 
insomnia.   Anyway,  I  didn't  sleep. 

In  the  early  morning  the  dark  young  buck  paid  us  a  brief 
visit,  leaving  without  a  word.  As  he  walked  away,  I  saw  a 
revolver  projecting  from  his  hip  pocket.  Commenting  on 
this,  I  made  brief  mention  to  the  Colonel  of  the  evening's 
occurrence,  **and  that  was  the  chap,  I  expect,"  I  said,  in 
conclusion.  To  me  the  experience  now  seemed  interesting 
and  I  spoke  without  thought  of  the  disregard  of  an  early 
frontiersman  for  Indian  life  when  his  outfit  is  concerned. 

Instantly  my  warrior  companion  whipped  out  his  deadly 
Leuger  and  with  repeated  curses,  drew  it  down  upon  the 
Indian.  **The  dirty  coyot',"  he  muttered,  coolly,  "he'll 
never  try  to  cut  out  stock  again!'* 

I  threw  myself  forward,  just  in  the  nick  of  time.  "For 
God's  sake.  Colonel,  let  him  go,"  I  cried. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 

WITH  much  flourishing  of  their  long  bows  the  In- 
dians were  under  way  five  minutes  later,  the 
buxom  squaw  in  the  lead.  She  was  on  foot. 
Well  mounted  and  strung  out  in  single  file,  the  others  fol- 
lowed close  in  her  wake.  Immediately  at  her  heels,  plodded 
an  old  gray  mare,  bearing  a  large  net-work  sack  bulging  out 
with  camp  supplies.  On  top  of  this  load  was  perched  the 
pretty  little  girl.  The  boy  rode  a  wild  young  burro.  The 
fine  looking  brave  possessed  the  only  saddle  and  bridle  in 
his  outfit,  the  others  riding  with  blanket  and  hakemore.  As 
my  volcanic  companion  still  rumbled  defiance,  I  did  not 
regret  the  departure  of  the  Indians. 

After  allowing  them  an  hour's  start  we  followed  in  their 
tracks — presumably  they  would  lead  to  fresh  water  and  no 
other  trail  was  in  evidence.  The  body  of  water  which  had 
seemed  to  bar  our  advance  the  preceding  evening  we  found 
to  be  merely  the  lower  end  of  the  Laguna  Salada  and  easily 
fordable.  As  our  course  for  the  day  was  northwest  and 
west  we  had  every  opportunity  to  observe  this  most  strange 
lake.  It  reaches  out  into  the  barren  desert  for  eight  or 
nine  leagues  with  a  width  of  from  one  hundred  to  several 
hundred  metres.  According  to  Indian  report,  it  gains  depth, 
width  and  saltiness  from  the  overflows  of  the  Hardy;  when 
there  has  been  no  rain  storm  and  no  recent  overflow,  it  is 
almost  drinkable ;  at  other  times,  lured  to  its  shores  by  thirst, 
men  have  died  miserable  deaths. 


317 


3l8      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


Shortly  after  fording  the  Laguna  Salada  I  caught  sight 
of  a  pair  of  nice  looking  young  porkers  rooting  along  the 
shore.  Though  presumably  property  of  the  Indians,  they 
looked  so  inviting,  that  I  readily  found  in  recent  events, 
acceptable  justification  for  extreme  action.  Accordingly, 
my  mind  pleasingly  filled  with  toothsome  visions  of  roast 
pig,  I  hastily  dismounted,  carbine  in  hand.  But  alas!  my 
companion  interrupted  me,  even  as  I  was  drawing  a  bead. 
**Say,  them  aint  wild  hogs!"  he  exclaimed,  excitably.  *'Them 
must  belong  to  the  Cocupas.  You  haint  got  any  right  or  call 
to  kill  them  shoats."  And  this,  in  all  earnestness,  from  the 
man  who  a  few  hours  earlier  was  about  to  shoot  down  an  In- 
dian, without  a  tremor !  Utterly  bewildered,  I  desisted  and 
we  moved  on.  Gradually,  slowly,  out  of  a  confused  maze 
of  thoughts  I  began  to  appreciate  the  Colonel's  frontier 
code  of  ethics.  **Allus  kill  a  rattlesnake  an'  a  thievin'  In- 
dian," it  would  run,  **but  don't  never  hanker  arter  live  stock 
that  aint  yourn.   No,  not  even  arter  an  Indian's  hog." 

We  found  the  desert  near  the  Laguna  so  barren  and  salty 
that  I  rather  doubt  whether  it  would  be  passable  in  summer 
except  immediately  after  a  shower.  Even  as  it  was  my 
mule  Pedro  gave  out  early  in  the  afternoon  and  I  had  to 
mount  Chappo,  a  large,  stalwart  Socorro  burro,  which  we 
had  rescued  from  the  Kaliwas  near  Valle  Trinidad.  At  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening  we  arrived  at  the  base  of  a  lofty  range 
of  rocky  sierras  which  marked  the  farther  side  of  the  desert. 
Here,  in  the  mouth  of  an  arroyo,  we  made  camp,  but  no 
sooner  were  we  comfortably  settled  than  we  heard  the  shrill 
cries  of  Indian  children  at  play,  from  which  we  rightly  con- 
cluded that  we  were  in  the  vicinity  of  some  encampment. 
The  Colonel,  therefore,  brought  in  the  stock  while  I  pre- 
pared supper.  Soon  a  number  of  mounted  Cocupas  passed 
us.  One,  a  man  of  forty,  addressed  me  in  broken  Spanish. 
Over  twenty  of  his  people,  he  explained,  were  camped 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 


nearby.  In  a  day  or  two  a  larger  party  would  join  them 
after  which  they  would  ascend  the  sierras  for  pinons  and 
deer.  Meantime,  would  I  give  him  meat,  tobacco,  coffee 
and  sugar?  Wholly  dissatisfied  with  the  small  gift  which 
I  graciously  handed  over,  the  buck  fell  into  a  somber  study. 
Presently,  with  deep  guile,  he  again  addressed  me :  His  wife 
was  a  wonderful  cook,  he  explained.  Why  should  a  stalwart 
white  hunter  cook?  The  wife  should  do  the  white  hunter's 
cooking  for  two  weeks,  and  in  return  the  white  hunter 
should  pay  him  ten  dollars  for  her  services.  The  Colonel, 
coming  into  camp  at  this  moment  and  understanding  the 
buck's  proposition,  roared  with  laughter,  whereupon  the 
Indian  rode  away  in  high  dudgeon. 

Early  the  following  morning  we  were  in  the  saddle. 
Without  any  preliminary  dilly-dallying  we  rode  plump  into 
the  Indian  encampment  and  with  a  proper  and  judicious  dis- 
tribution of  tobacco  began  to  make  inquiries  concerning  the 
nearest  white  man's  road.  As  one  of  the  bucks  responded 
by  waving  a  hand  toward  the  south  and  southwest  and  then 
successively  pointing  to  the  rising  sun  and  to  the  west  where 
it  would  set,  we  interpreted  this  sign  play  as  meaning  that 
a  southwesterly  course  would  bring  us  to  a  road  by  night- 
fall. Following  this  theory  we  ascended  the  face  of  the 
sierras  by  an  indistinct  and  fearfully  abrupt  Indian  trail. 
!As  we  arose  above  the  plain  a  magnificent  view  unfolded 
below  us:  at  our  feet  the  broad  gray  desert  with  its  long 
shimmering  salt  lake,  farther  to  the  north  and  east  the  yel- 
lowish Cocupa  Sierras  and  the  parti-colored  Sierra  del 
Pinto;  over  beyond  these  the  delta  of  the  Colorado  and  the 
Hardy. 

High  up  among  great  cliffs  and  mid  barren  surroundings 
we  clambered,  suffering  the  meantime  intensely  from  the 
unrestrained  rays  of  the  fiery  sun.  Soon  the  Colonel's  mule 
gave  out,  then  Chappo  became  sullen.  Not  only  did  we  have 


320     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


to  walk  but  our  mules  were  so  determined  to  move  no  fur- 
ther that  all  our  reserves  of  energy  were  required  to  urge 
them  on.  Five  hours  of  this  sort  finally  brought  us  to  the 
crest  of  the  sierra,  an  elevation  of  at  least  a  mile  in  an  ascent 
no  more  than  seven  times  that  distance.  During  this  climb 
we  had  each  drunk  over  a  gallon  (eleven  three-quarter-pint 
cups)  of  water!  On  a  short  allowance  I  do  not  think  that 
either  of  us  could  have  managed  for  in  the  dry  intense  heat 
of  a  Baja  California  summer,  heavy  exercise,  except  in  the 
timber  country,  produces  such  violent  perspiration  that  fre- 
quent and  copious  draughts  of  water  are  absolutely  essential. 

On  the  crest  we  found  a  region  of  white  granite  picachos, 
scrub  oaks  and  pinon  trees  where  criss-crossing  trails  ad- 
vised us  of  the  recent  presence  of  cattle.  When  we  had 
advanced  perhaps  a  mile  into  this  country,  a  heavy  storm  of 
rain  suddenly  burst  over  us.  Quickly  the  air  grew  chilly, 
and  amidst  crash  on  crash  of  thunder  and  vivid  flashes  of 
lightning,  a  shower  of  hail  stones,  the  size  of  pigeon  eggs, 
beat  upon  us.  For  twenty  minutes  the  storm  raged  wildly, 
completely  soaking  us  and  our  outfits.  To  add  to  our 
vexation  every  cow  path  became  a  hurrying  stream  so  in- 
distinguishable from  its  neighbor  that,  after  losing  time  fol- 
lowing various  water  courses,  we  had  to  admit  that  we  had 
lost  our  trail.  The  balance  of  that  day  and  the  ensuing 
forenoon  were  spent  in  vain  search  north,  south  and  west 
for  some  pass  through  the  cliffs  and  brush.  I  would  not 
want  to  say  how  many  picachos  we  climbed  in  determined 
effort  to  locate  our  bearings.  Finally,  we  worked  into  the 
open  timber  country  to  the  southwest  and  in  the  late  after- 
noon made  camp  on  the  edge  of  a  beautiful  fresh  water  pond 
which  we  assumed  to  be  Laguna  Hanson. 

A  wagon  road  was  near  at  hand  and  upon  this  we  set 
forth  the  ensuing  day,  northward  bound.  For  thirty-five 
miles  we  traveled  through  a  delightful  pine  forest  where  the 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 


321 


nights  were  frosty  and  the  morning  air  sharp  and  bracing; 
then  we  descended  to  the  lower  altitude  of  scrub  oaks,  brush, 
warm  weather  and  dust.  After  passing  a  succession  of 
jewel  diggings,  ranchos  and  gold  mines  we  found  ourselves 
face  to  face  with  the  American  border  town  of  Campo. 
Swinging  off  to  the  west,  we  passed  through  Tecarte  Valley 
and  hugging  the  Line  closely  for  two  days,  rode  into  the 
little  town  of  Tia  Juana  on  the  6th  of  September,  1906. 

Twenty-five  days  had  elapsed  since  our  departure  from 
Socorro;  twenty-two  of  them  had  been  spent  in  the  saddle,  a 
driving — and  most  appropriate — finish  for  the  seven  months 
of  my  explorations.*  The  Colonel  estimated  the  distance 
covered  in  the  twenty-two  days  at  five  hundred  miles,  an 
altogether  respectable  figure ;  my  own  notes  show  forty  less. 
But  the  time  of  year,  the  untrod  wilderness,  the  changing 
temperatures  and  the  varying  altitudes  had  been  the  most 
trying  elements  of  the  experience.  Inured  to  hardships 
though  we  were,  we  both  realized  that  we  had  been  trav- 
eling. The  mules  seemed  to  have  a  similar  view.  The 
burros,  however,  came  through  in  marvelous  form. 

Tia  Juana !  Nine  and  a  half  months  earlier,  as  the  mel- 
low light  of  the  dying  day,  the  shortest  lived  day  in  all  the 
year,  flickered  along  the  horizon,  I  had  made  camp  near 
this  forlorn  little  border  pueblo  for  the  first  night  of  my 
wanderings  on  the  peninsula.  As  my  journey  began  at 
Tia  Juana,  there  let  it  end. 

As  I  write  these  closing  lines  there  comes  over  me  a 
flood  of  recollections — of  gorgeous  sunrises  and  sunsets,  of 
evenings  about  the  camp  fire  with  copperhued  brave  or 
swarthy  Mexican  telling  of  days  that  are  gone,  of  nights 
on  the  lone  deserts  with  the  glittering  stars  and  white  moon 
close  overhead.  Once  more  with  Senor  Dick  I  am  riding 
southward  along  the  King's  Highway.    Again  I  see  the 


*Note  E:  Appendix. 


322      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

lordly  big-horn  and  hear  the  sharp  crack  of  the  carbine. 
Again  the  Laird  and  I  read  Kipling  and  Balzac  while  with- 
out the  tent  storms  the  Madame.  Once  more  I  gaze  over 
the  desolate  wastes  of  the  Llanos  de  Ojo  Liebre  while  Cas- 
tro in  hollow  tones  presages  impending  doom.  This  gloomy 
picture  fades  and  before  me  now  are  the  lovely  valleys  of 
San  Ignacio  and  Comondu.  Again  I  hear  the  soft  melodies 
of  the  sweet  voiced  muchachas  of  Mulege.  Again  I  am 
resting  in  the  orange  groves  by  the  regal  Mission  of  San 
Xavier.  Once  more  is  Praemundi  calling  and  I  half  rise, 
ready  to  mount,  as  I  hear  his  crisp,  ^^Senor,  Usto  cami- 
nando!^ 

But  what  wild  memory  is  this  that  now  seizes  me  ?  Ah, 
the  intrepid  Colonel  with  his  ingenuous  prof aneness !  What 
are  you  saying,  comrade  of  the  wilds?  What?  Your 
prophesy!  Well — mayhap,  now  in  office  confines,  may- 
hap I  do  long  for  the  trail,  mayhap  I  do  feel  "solemcuUy 
like."  Yes,  you  are  right  I  do  "miss —  my  chaps,  taps  and 
latigo  straps."   Perhaps,  yes,  God  willing,  I'll  come  again. 


[finis] 


APPENDIX 


I.  NOTES. 

Note  A,  Chapter  IV.  Lower  California  is  the  least 
known  and  most  unsettled  section  of  all  Mexico.  Over  seven 
hundred  miles  in  length,  it  varies  from  thirty-five  to  one 
hundred  and  forty  miles  in  breadth.  Its  total  population  is 
not  in  excess  of  thirty  thousand.  Take  out  the  dozen  largest 
towns  and  less  than  five  thousand  persons  remain;  they  are 
scattered  over  nearly  forty  million  acres  of  territory.  More 
than  three-fourths  of  this  great  area  is  mountainous.  For 
the  benefit  of  those  desirous  of  further  information  con- 
cerning conditions  in  Lower  California,  reference  is  here 
made  to  the  author's  Mother  of  California^'  (1908, 
Paul  Elder  &  Co.,  Publishers,  New  York  and  San  Fran- 
cisco. Price,  $2.00),  from  which,  through  the  courtesy  of 
Paul  Elder  &  Co.,  the  following  chapter  is  here  reproduced. 

^'Physical  Lower  California. 

'^Geographically,  Lower  California  is  a  long,  jagged 
peninsula,  lashed  on  its  western  and  southern  shores  by  the 
booming  waves  of  the  Pacific  Ocean,  and  separated  from  the 
mainland  of  Mexico  by  the  restless  Colorado  River  and  by 
the  opalescent  waters  of  the  Sea  of  Cortez,  or,  as  that  body 
is  termed  with  less  grace  but  greater  frequency,  the  Gulf  of 
California.  With  a  general  trend  from  northwest  to  south- 
east, this  strange  territory  attains  a  maximum  length  of 
some  two  hundred  and  fifty  leagues,  although  its  breadth  in 
places  is  a  scant  ten  and  nowhere  exceeds  fifty  leagues.  In 
round  numbers  the  area  of  Lower  California  exceeds  thirty- 
eight  million  acres,  and  of  these,  seventeen  and  a  quarter 
million  are  north  of  the  twenty-eighth  parallel  of  latitude. 
In  calling  the  gulf  the  Adriatic  of  the  West  and  in  likening 
the  Peninsula  to  their  beloved  Italy,  the  Jesuits  made  an 
excellent  general  comparison,  both  topographically  and  cli- 
matically. Lower  California  is  a  hundred  miles  the  longer, 
however,  while  the  Italian  peninsula  has  the  greater  breadth. 

323 


324     CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


Also,  the  latter  enjoys  more  moisture  and  has  more  level 
land. 

'Trom  the  American  boundary  on  the  north  to  Cape  San 
Lucas,  shouldering  high  above  cactus-clad  plains,  small 
oases  and  parched  deserts,  there  extends  throughout  the 
California  Peninsula  a  mighty  range  of  grim  mountains, 
sloping  away  to  the  west,  breaking  oft  to  the  east  in  abrupt, 
awe-inspiring  cliffs.  Of  these  sierras,  five  thousand  feet  is 
but  an  average  height,  and  he  who  explores  their  lofty  ridges 
is  rewarded  by  views  of  majestic  grandeur  which  some  day 
will  be  heralded  among  men.  Rich  in  boulders,  cliffs,  min- 
erals and  cacti,  the  entire  Peninsula  is  strangely  devoid  of 
trees  and  springs,  except  about  the  timber  plateaus  of 
Laguna  Hanson,  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra  and  in  the 
Laguna  Sierras  above  San  Jose  del  Cabo.  Few  passes  bisect 
the  main  range.  In  one  section  of  these  sierras  mesas  are 
the  rule,  in  another  lofty  peaks  are  outlined  sharply  against 
the  sky.  Truncated  cones  are  frequent.  San  Pedro  Martir 
Sierra,  in  many  reports  and  without  valid  ground  therefor^ 
termed  ^Calamahue  Mountain,'  attains  an  altitude  of  10,126 
feet  and  is  the  highest  peak  in  Lower  California;  certain  of 
its  unsealed  heights  should  appeal  to  the  daring  of  the  more 
intrepid  members  of  the  Sierra,  Mazama,  Alpine  or  kindred 
mountain-climbing  associations.  Throughout  the  main 
peninsula  range  the  soil  is  usually  shallow;  frequently  there 
are  massive,  beetling  shoulders  of  rock,  devoid  of  any  earth; 
again  and  again  long  white  scars  mark  where  sudden  tor- 
rents of  prehistoric  or  modern  times  have  torn  aside  the 
thin  covering  and  exposed  a  granite  heart;  and  yet  within 
sight  of  this  poverty  of  soil  there  is  found  at  times  an  arroyo 
bottom  where  a  spring  bubbles  out  beneath  the  shadow  of 
a  palm  and  waters  marvelously  rich  acres  of  sandy  loam. 

"Sections  of  this  sierra  have  local  names.  The  mountains 
back  from  San  Jose  del  Cabo  are  known  as  the  Laguna — 
and  also  as  the  San  Lazaro — Mountains,  those  immediately 
south  of  La  Paz  are  called  the  Cacachilas;  the  grim  ridges 
and  peaks  back  of  Loreto  were  known,  even  among  the  an- 
cient padres,  as  the  Sierra  Giganta;  the  sierras,  southwest 
of  San  Ignacio  and  separating  the  llanos  of  Ojo  de  Liebre 
and  Magdalena,  are  called,  indiscriminately,  the  Sierra  Pin- 
tada  and  the  Santa  Clara  Sierras ;  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra 
is  a  range  by  itself,  extending  for  fifty  miles  northwest  and 


APPENDIX 


325 


southeast  and  having  a  plateau  width  of  nigh  ten  miles :  the 
timber-covered  mountains  northwest  of  Santa  Catarina 
Mission  are  spoken  of,  locally,  as  the  Laguna  Hanson 
Mountains,  and  north  of  them  lie  a  group  of  sharp  peaks 
referred  to  as  *The  Picachos';  immediately  west  of  the 
mouth  of  the  Colorado  River  lies  a  weird  range  of  barren, 
sand-swept  mountains  called  the  Sierra  del  Pinto,  and  a  few 
miles  northwest  of  the  Pintos  lie  the  Cocupa  Sierras. 

'Tart  and  parcel  of  these  sierras  are  their  deep  and  tor- 
tuous arroyos,  immense,  long  and  winding  gorges  slashed 
deep  into  the  sierras  and  frequently  containing  springs  or 
water-holes  and  spots  of  alluvial  soil. 

**The  sierras  and  the  arroyos  tell  of  their  prehistoric  life. 
The  vast  stretches  of  lava  formation,  the  sea-shells  on  the 
lofty  ridges  and  peaks,  the  mud  volcanoes  at  the  headwaters 
of  the  Hardy  River,  the  spark  of  life  that  still  throbs  rebel- 
liously  within  the  lofty  Tres  Virgenes  towering  above  San 
Ignacio,  the  not  infrequent  temblors,  the  mighty  chasms, 
rent  asunder  by  the  awful  convulsions  of  nature;  these  all 
bespeak  the  volcanic  origin  of  the  land.  Geologists  class  the 
sierra  back-bone  of  the  Peninsula  as  a  continuation  of  the 
mountain  ranges  in  eastern  San  Bernardino  and  Riverside 
Counties  and  in  central  San  Diego  County  in  the  State  of 
California.  They  parallel  the  range  with  submarine  sierras, 
evidenced  by  a  series  of  islands  and  rocks  fifty  leagues  off 
the  western  shore  of  the  Peninsula  and  separated  therefrom 
by  great  depths  of  water.  These  scientists  say,  further,  that 
the  region  about  and  immediately  above  San  Jose  del  Cabo 
is  the  remnant  of  a  formerly  existing  tropical  peninsula  that 
extended  southward  along  the  Mexican  coast,  taking  in  the 
Tres  Marias  and  other  islands  and  separated  from  the  bal- 
ance of  the  present  California  Peninsula  by  a  channel  pass- 
ing westerly  from  the  Bay  of  La  Paz  to  the  Pacific  Ocean. 
They  proceed  with  their  theory  and  make  another  prehis- 
toric island  of  the  territory  between  the  Cape  Region  and 
the  twenty-ninth  parallel  of  latitude  north.  Certainly,  along 
the  line  of  each  of  these  supposed  channels  the  sierras  dip 
downward  and  the  Peninsula  is  extremely  narrow. 

**Examined  from  a  modern  topographical  standpoint, 
Lower  California  consists  of  four  natural  subdivisions,  viz. : 
the  Cape  Region,  embracing  the  Cape  San  Lucas  section  and 
extending  northward  slightly  above  the  latitude  of  La  Paz 


326      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 

to,  say,  24^  20'  north;  Central  Lower  California,  extending 
northward  from  the  Cape  Region  to  the  twenty-eighth  par- 
allel north;  the  '^Waist,''  the  narrow,  rugged  region  from 
the  twenty-eighth  to  the  thirtieth  parallel  of  north  latitude, 
and  La  Frontera,  including  the  territory  from  the  thirtieth 
parallel  to  the  international  boundary  (lying  just  north  of 
the  thirty-second  parallel  of  north  latitude  and  defined,  by 
the  Treaty  of  Guadalupe  Hidalgo,  as  a  straight  line  run- 
ning from  the  junction  of  the  Gila  and  Colorado  Rivers 
to  a  point  one  marine  league  south  of  the  port  of  San  Diego 
as  located  by  a  survey  made  in  1782).  Climatically,  and 
from  their  flora  and  fauna.  Central  Lower  California  and 
the  Waist  are  intermediary  between  the  Cape  Region,  which 
is  semi-tropical,  and  La  Frontera,  which  is  not  unlike  Sonora 
and  the  southern  part  of  the  State  of  California. 

*'The  large  sections  of  the  Peninsula  which  are  not  sierra 
regions  are  usually  either  wide  deserts  or  hot  barren  llanos, 
or  plains.  Guadalupe  Valley,  above  Ensenada,  in  La  Fron- 
tera, is  an  exception,  being  vastly  similar  to  the  great  farm- 
ing valleys  so  frequent  in  the  State  of  California.  Scat- 
tered here  and  there  about  La  Frontera  are  excellent  tracts 
of  farming  land,  such  as  the  valleys  of  San  Telmo  and 
Rosario,  and  along  the  Hardy  and  the  Colorado  Rivers 
there  are  thousands  of  acres  of  fertile  and  level  land,  which 
by  reclamation  would  become  extremely  productive.  The 
land  of  the  Colorado  Desert  also  is  alluvial  and  produces 
heavily  after  irrigation,  as  does  that  about  San  Quintin. 
The  desert  back  of  the  Cocupa  Sierras  and  bordering  on  the 
Laguna  Salada  and  the  San  Felipe  Desert,  further  south, 
are  excellent  grazing  districts,  but  the  title  of  'desert'  well 
describes  them. 

''The  Waist  is  practically  devoid  of  level  lands,  excepting 
mesas  or  llanos,  floored  with  lava.  In  the  neighborhood 
of  Los  Flores,  however,  there  are  some  rather  large  valleys. 

"In  Central  Lower  California  are  found  the  most  exten- 
sive llanos  on  the  Peninsula,  those  of  Ojo  de  Liebre  and 
Magdalena;  they  border  on  the  Pacific  Ocean  and  contain 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  acres  of  level  or  rolling  land. 
Could  these  be  cleared  of  cacti  and  reached  by  water,  they 
would  make  good  agricultural  land,  unless  alkali  material- 
ized. 

"The  Cape  Region  is  the  most  productive  portion  of  the 
Peninsula,  the  San  Jose  Valley  and  the  country  about  San 


APPENDIX 


327 


Jose  del  Cabo  and  Todos  Santos  being  beautiful  garden 
spots. 

^'But  while  La  Frontera  has  greater  known  level  tracts 
of  land,  suitable  for  farming  purposes,  than  have  the  three 
southern  sub-divisions,  throughout  the  sierras,  in  the  latter 
there  are  immense  arroyos,  floored  with  fertile  soil  and 
watered  by  small  streams;  these  arroyo  spots  are  unsur- 
passed for  their  productiveness  and  support  the  greater  part 
of  the  population  of  the  Peninsula.  The  good  soil  in  these 
three  sections  of  the  country  is  usually  of  an  ashy  volcanic 
loam. 

*'The  Colorado  and  the  Hardy  are  the  only  rivers  that 
touch  Lower  California.  The  so-called  ^rivers'  of  Tia 
Juana,  San  Vicente,  Santo  Domingo,  Rosario,  Mulege, 
Comondu,  Purisima,  Todos  Santos,  San  Jose,  etc.,  are  small 
streams  except  in  time  of  exceptional  storm  or  of  cloudburst. 
Of  these  last  named  ^rivers'  the  Purisima  carries  the  larg- 
est volume  of  water;  accurately  speaking,  it  is  a  long  chain 
of  broad  water-holes,  scooped  deep  in  the  rocky  bottom 
of  a  great  arroyo  where  rain-  and  spring-water  alike 
gather.  The  San  Jose  and  Todos  Santos  streams  are  in 
the  Cape  Region;  the  Purisima,  Comondu  and  Mulege 
streams  in  Central  Lower  California;  and  the  Rosario, 
Santo  Domingo,  San  Vicente  and  Tia  Juana,  together  with 
the  Hardy  and  the  Colorado  Rivers,  are  in  La  Frontera. 
The  Waist  boasts  no  streams. 

**The  Hardy  River  and  the  Colorado  River  are  in 
classes  by  themselves.  Books  have  been  written  concern- 
ing the  Colorado:  its  romance  has  been  published,  its 
tragedy  is  being  enacted.  For  generations  its  tidal  bore 
caused  men  to  marvel  and  to  fear  to  approach  its  mouth, 
and  yet,  in  September,  1906,  burro  deer,  coyotes  and  a 
man  waded  across  the  river  just  above  its  junction  with 
the  Hardy,  passing,  in  their  journey,  the  carcass  of  a 
whale  left  stranded  high  and  dry!  Formerly,  when  the 
snow  began  to  melt  in  the  high  mountains  where  it  headed 
and  spring  rains  fell,  the  Colorado  poured  down  into  the 
Sea  of  Cortez  with  a  mighy  torrent,  and  then,  before  the 
powerful  tides  of  that  sea,  its  waters  were  forced  back, 
only  to  return  as  a  tidal  bore  close  in  the  wake  of  the  re- 
treating tide.  Doubtless  the  river  will  return  to  this  course 
now  that  it  has  been  brought  back  to  its  bed  again.  In  this 
play  of  ocean  and  sea  the  Hardy,  too,  had  its  part,  over- 


32  8      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


flowing  into  the  desert  by  the  Laguna  Salada  when  the 
Colorado  overflowed,  and  then  draining  back  into  the 
Colorado  at  its  leisure.  After  its  overflow  the  Hardy  is 
from  fifty  to  a  hundred  yards  in  width  and,  its  snaky  course 
considered,  doubtless  fifty  leagues  in  length.  Its  head- 
waters are  among  a  group  of  some  sixty  mud  volcanoes, 
situated  about  eight  leagues  south  of  the  international 
boundary  and  an  equal  distance  west  of  the  Colorado 
River.  These  Volcanoes'  have  been  described  as  ^circular 
holes  containing  boiling  mud  and  exhaling  a  naphtha-like 
odor.  Many  of  them  are  encrusted  with  mud  forming 
cones  three  to  four  feet  high,  from  the  apex  of  which  pro- 
ceed mingled  vapors  of  water,  sal  amoniac  and  sulphur.' 
Between  the  brackishness  of  its  source  and  the  incoming 
tide,  the  Hardy  is  a  murky,  salty  stream. 

*'North  of  the  Hardy  River  there  is  a  considerable 
laguna,  or  lake,  and  several  smaller  ones.  Laguna  Salada 
(sometimes  termed  Laguna  Maquata)  is  a  long,  narrow, 
brackish  lake  southwest  of  the  main  ridge  of  the  Cocupa 
Sierras;  reinforced  by  the  overflows  of  the  Hardy,  at  other 
times  this  lake  dwindles  down  into  two  sloughs.  Eight  or 
nine  leagues  further  southwest,  surrounded  by  pines  and  at 
an  altitude  of  over  five  thousand  feet,  lies  Laguna  Hanson, 
a  crystal  gem  of  water.  At  the  meadow  of  La  Grulla  on 
the  heights  of  San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra  there  is  a  very 
small  pond.  All  of  these  bodies  of  water  are  in  La  Fron- 
tera.  In  the  Waist  of  the  Peninsula  there  are  two  small 
lagunas,  one  known  as  Lake  Chapala  while  the  other  has 
no  known  name.  In  the  Cape  Region  there  is  a  laguna  in 
the  sierras  above  San  Jose  del  Cabo.  These  lagunas  are 
nothing  more  than  ponds. 

*'With  a  coast  line  so  indented  that  its  full  length  is  over 
six  hundred  leagues  in  actual  measurement,  the  Peninsula 
is  richly  endowed  with  harbors  and  bays.  Fleets  might 
search  the  seas  for  more  magnificent  retreats  than  Magda- 
lena  Bay  on  the  Pacific  and  Playa  Los  Angeles  on  the  Gulf. 
The  first  of  these  is  described  in  the  publications  of  the 
United  States  Hydrographic  Ofiice  as  *one  of  the  most  spa- 
cious and  safe  harbors  in  the  world,  (it)  is  about  fifteen 
miles  long,  northwest  and  southeast,  and  twelve  miles  wide.' 
The  actual  length  of  this  great  sheet  of  water,  however,  is 
nearer  forty  than  fifteen  miles,  but  points  making  out  from 
the  mainland  and  from  Santa  Margarita,  a  long  narrow 


APPENDIX 


329 


island  crowded  in  shorewards,  divide  it  into  two  bays  of 
which  the  northerly  one  is  termed  Magdalena  and  the 
southerly  Almaca,  or  Almejas,  Bay.  Among  the  old-time 
whalers  these  bays  were  known  as  Weather  and  Lee  Bays. 
Numerous  large  lagoons  branch  out  from  Magdalena  Bay. 
Although  there  is  a  small  settlement  on  Margarita  Island, 
the  only  really  excellent  water  is  brought  from  the  Rancho 
of  Matancita,  on  the  mainland,  leagues  distant.  Through 
the  courtesy  of  Mexico,  the  United  States  is  permitted  to 
send  her  men-of-war  to  Magdalena  Bay  for  target  prac- 
tice, and  the  booming  cannon  of  the  great  white  ships 
awaken,  periodically,  the  echoes  about  the  lonely  harbor. 
Playa  Los  Angeles  is  a  superb  sheet  of  water,  covering  an 
area  of  nigh  twenty-five  miles.  Protected  on  the  east  and 
the  northeast  by  no  less  than  fifteen  islands  and  islets,  it  is 
a  tranquil,  land-locked  harbor  where  whales  are  wont  to 
bring  forth  their  young,  undisturbed  by  clanging  bells,  es- 
caping steam  or  the  splash  of  anchors.  The  majestic  curve 
of  its  shore  lines  and  its  inviting  stretches  of  sandy  beach 
call  forth  the  admiration  of  the  few  strangers  who  chance 
to  behold  them.  The  Bay  of  Sebastian  Viscaino  on  the 
west  coast  is  full  sixty  miles  in  width  and  over  fifty  in  its 
inland  reach.  Puerto  San  Bartolome,  also  on  the  Pacific, 
and  Pichilingue,  Puerto  Escondido  and  Santa  Rosalia  on 
the  Gulf  are  magnificent,  well-protected  harbors,  while  the 
entire  coast  line  is  notched  with  small  bays  and  open  road- 
steads at  least  a  dozen  of  which  are  noteworthy,  though 
they  remain  practically  unvisited. 

''The  islands  adjacent  to  the  coast  are  as  numerous  as  its 
indentations.  Indeed,  their  aggregate  area  has  been  esti- 
mated at  one-fifteenth  that  of  the  Peninsula.  Few  of  them 
are  inhabited,  however,  save  by  sea-fowl,  rabbits  and  goats, 
sheep  or  deer.  The  more  important  are  Cedros,  Nativi- 
dad,  Guadalupe,  and  Margarita  Islands  off  the  west  coast, 
and  Ceralbo,  Espiritu  Santo,  San  Josef,  Santa  Catarina,  Car- 
men, San  Lorenzo,  Angel  de  la  Guardia,  and  Montagu  in  the 
Gulf.  Of  these  Angel  de  la  Guardia,  forty  miles  In  length  and 
with  an  extreme  width  of  ten  miles,  is  the  largest;  Cedros, 
twenty-nine  miles  in  length  and  with  an  extreme  width  of 
nine  miles,  is  second;  the  others  named  are  from  six  to 
seventeen  miles  in  length.  The  majority  of  all  these  islands 
are  mountainous;  Guadalupe  boasts  a  peak  with  an  eleva- 
tion of  4,523  feet,  the  heights  of  Cedros  approach  4,000 


33^      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


feet,  while  a  range  nigh  to  that  elevation  runs  the  length 
of  Angel  de  la  Guardia.  Though  of  volcanic  origin  many 
of  these  islands  have  more  or  less  vegetation,  several  of 
them  have  been  noted  guano  fields ;  Guadalupe  and  Cedros 
possess  considerable  timber;  Angel  de  la  Guardia  is  abso- 
lutely barren. 

'^There  is  excuse  enough  for  barrenness  in  Lower  Cali- 
fornia, however,  for  there  rain  is  capricious:  sometimes  it 
may  fall  in  every  season  of  the  year,  sometimes  it  may  forget 
to  fall  at  all.  In  this  strange  country  rain  is  an  event  and 
even  happens  without  clouds.  Snow  is  somewhat  regular 
in  the  northern  sierras,  dew  comes  with  the  midnight  in  the 
Waist  of  the  Peninsula,  and  fogs  are  not  infrequent  along 
the  western  coast  above  the  Cape  Region.  It  may  be  safely 
said  that  the  Cape  Region  and  the  country  bordering  on  the 
Sea  of  Cortez  receive  their  rainfall  from  the  tropical  sum- 
mer rains  originating  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  the  heaviest 
and  surest  rainfall  being  precipitated  along  the  sierra  back- 
bone. It  may  also  be  said  that  the  west  coast  of  La  Fron- 
tera,  or  that  portion  of  it  above  San  Quintin,  is  subject  to 
most  uncertain  winter  rains,  the  tail  end  of  storms  which 
originate  in  the  far  North.  Throughout  the  country  the 
rain-water  disappears  almost  as  soon  as  the  rain  is  over. 

''Of  springs.  Lower  California  has  a  strangely  limited 
number.  The  majority  of  them  are  found  in  the  sides  or 
heads  of  the  sierra  arroyos.  Some  of  these,  such  as  Agua 
Dulce  and  Youbai  in  the  Waist  of  the  Peninsula,  the  springs 
of  Comondu  and  Punsima  in  Central  Lower  California 
and  the  spring  at  San  Bartolo  in  the  Cape  Region  pour 
out  immense  bodies  of  water.  The  absence  of  springs  on 
the  great  deserts  and  llanos  is  so  complete  that  deaths  by 
thirst  have  been  numerous,  and  yet  it  is  quite  probable  that 
artesian  water  might  be  found  by  boring  either  on  the 
llanos  above  San  Quintin,  or  along  the  more  extensive 
stretches  in  Central  Lower  California  near  the  Pacific 
Coast.  Water  has  been  readily  found  on  these  llanos  by 
sinking  wells  of  from  forty  to  one  hundred  feet  in  depth, 
but  no  one  seems  to  have  been  possessed  of  requisite  energy 
to  try  for  the  liberal  government  reward  offered  to  him 
who  first  obtains  an  artesian  flow.  There  is  a  fine  bubbling 
soda  spring  at  the  old  Mission  of  Calamyget,  arsenic  and 
borax  springs  have  been  found,  and  aguas  calientes,  or  hot 
springs,  are  not  infrequent.    Peculiar  to  the  country,  how- 


APPENDIX 


ever,  and  the  most  frequent  watering-places  in  Lower  Cali- 
fornia, are  the  tinajas,  or  natural  cisterns.  These  are 
water-holes  found  in  the  rock-bottoms  of  arroyos  where 
rain  collects.  In  some  of  these  tinajas  there  are  thousands 
of  gallons  of  water,  and  in  them  small  fish  and  water-terra- 
pin are  found.  These  tinajas  are  the  salvation  of  those 
who  travel  about  the  Peninsula. 

^^Considering  its  immense  coast  line.  Lower  California 
is  not  a  land  of  many  or  severe  winds.  Off  the  northeast- 
ern portion  of  the  Cape  Region  there  occurs,  at  intervals 
of  several  years,  a  local  hurricane  known  as  El  Cordonaso. 
While  this  hurricane  has  an  ill  reputation,  it  is  of  amusing 
interest  from  the  tradition  surrounding  its  name.  Accord- 
ing to  the  residents,  Oliver  Cromwell  ravaged  the  east 
coast  of  the  Peninsula  during  the  seventeenth  century  as 
a  buccaneer,  and  so  severe  were  his  depredations  that  the 
hurricane  was  named  for  him.  Even  residents  of  education 
are  thoroughly  satisfied  that  the  doughty  Oliver  visited  the 
land  during  his  time!  Heavy  winds  occur  periodically 
along  the  twenty-eighth  parallel,  and  in  the  winter  cold 
winds  sweep  across  the  northern  portion  of  the  Sea  of 
Cortez  and  acquire  added  iciness  from  the  snowy  heights 
of  San  Pedro  Martir.  On  the  Gulf  northwesterly  winds 
prevail  from  October  to  May  and  southeasterly  winds  from 
May  to  October.  The  prevailing  winds  throughout  the 
Peninsula  are  from  the  northwest  and  the  southwest.  The 
magnetic  variation  of  the  compass  in  Lower  California 
reaches  from  six  to  fourteen  degrees. 

**The  air  of  Lower  California  is  dry  and  pure  and  the 
atmosphere,  except  on  the  fog-swept  western  coast,  is  mar- 
velously  clear.  Southward  from  the  thirty-first  parallel 
one  may  easily  read  in  the  white  light  of  the  full  moon,  and 
in  the  Cape  Region  the  Southern  Cross  adorns  the  heavens. 
South  of  the  mouth  of  the  Hardy  River  and  off  Ojo  de 
Liebre  treacherous  mirages  in  many  and  varied  designs  de- 
ceive the  vision  and  vex  the  traveler.  Perhaps  the  very 
narrowness  of  the  Peninsula  gives  to  its  atmosphere  a  touch 
of  the  bracing  air  of  the  sea,  or  perhaps  the  dryness  of  the 
land  gives  the  air  an  intense  purity:  whatever  the  cause,  the 
result  is  that  there  is  probably  no  more  healthful  climate  in 
the  world  than  that  of  Lower  California.  This  was  the 
verdict  of  the  Jesuit  missionaries  who  were  in  touch  with 
the  **uttermost  parts  of  the  earth";  this  was  the  verdict  of 


332      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


the  New  York  Volunteers  who  occupied  the  country  during 
the  Mexican  War  and  whose  officers  likened  the  climate  to 
that  of  Persia  or  Arabia,  reporting  in  a  year  but  two  deaths 
from  natural  causes  among  fifteen  hundred  people ;  this  has 
been  the  verdict  of  those  who  have  resided  in  or  explored 
the  land.  Certainly  it  is  a  country  where  disease  is  infre- 
quent and  wounds  heal  readily,  where  extreme  age  is  no 
rarity  and  physicians  are  practically  unknown.  Probably 
from  a  standpoint  of  health  the  most  favored  sections  are 
along  the  line  of  the  high  sierras  and  throughout  the  Waist 
of  the  Peninsula. 

**The  mean  temperature  of  Lower  California  is  not 
known.  The  coldest  region  is  along  the  line  of  the  San 
Pedro  Martir  Sierra,  Valle  Trinidad,  the  country  about 
Santa  Catalina  Mission  and  through  the  Laguna  Hanson 
range  in  La  Frontera.  Throughout  this  high  plateau  region 
there  is  an  abundance  of  ice  during  the  winter  months  and 
the  nights  are  always  cold.  The  Colorado  and  San  Felipe 
Deserts  in  La  Frontera  and  the  llanos  back  from  Magda- 
lena  Bay  experience  as  great  heat  as  any  sections  of  the 
country,  but  it  is  not  a  moist  heat.  For  balmy  air  the 
Cape  Region  and  the  east  coast  of  the  Waist  are  unsur- 
passed. 

**In  so  summery  a  clime  the  least  rainfall  is  sufficient  to 
deck  the  land  with  a  profusion  of  wild  flowers  and  only  an 
absolute  drought  destroys  the  abundant  good  grass,  varie- 
ties of  which  haunt  even  the  deserts.  But  the  most  fre- 
quent form  of  vegetation  throughout  Lower  California  is 
the  cactus.  It  has  its  blooming  time,  too,  for  in  the  spring 
it  sends  forth  blossoms  of  the  deepest  and  most  gorgeous 
hues.  The  mesquit  and  the  attractive  palo  verde  hover 
near  the  arroyos,  the  former  attaining  to  immense  girth 
in  Central  Lower  California  and  in  the  Waist  Region.  In 
La  Frontera  pines  are  practically  unknown  until  the  Cape 
Region  with  its  pinons  and  scrub-oaks  is  reached.  The 
cacti  flourish  everywhere.  The  useful  viznaga,  the  vicious 
cholla,  the  ocotilla,  or  its  cousin,  the  Palo  Adan,  the 
maguay  and  the  tuna :  these  thorny  growths  greet  the  trav- 
eler as  he  crosses  the  international  boundary,  and  he  parts 
with  them  only  at  the  Cape.  The  giant  cardones  and  the 
prized  pithaya  thrive  south  of  the  thirty-first  parallel, 
while  the  graceful  cirio  or  milapa  is  indigenous  to  the 
Waist.    In  La  Frontera  there  are  few  palms,  but  in  the 


APPENDIX 


333 


other  sections  of  the  country  they  stand  guard  above  the 
springs  and  water-holes." 

Note  B,  Chapter  XIX.  In  the  fall  of  1907  Mexico 
granted  to  the  United  States  the  right  to  establish  and  main- 
tain coaling  stations  at  Magdalena  Bay  for  a  period  of 
three  years.  Thereafter  and  on  the  i6th  of  December, 
1907,  sixteen  ships-of-the-line,  flying  the  Stars  and  Stripes, 
left  Harnpton  Roads,  Virginia,  bound  for  the  Pacific  Ocean. 
After  brief  visits  at  Trinidad,  Rio  de  Janeiro,  Punta  Arena 
and  Callao,  the  fleet  put  in,  on  the  12th  of  March,  1908, 
at  Magdalena  Bay,  having  made  a  cruise  unprecedented  in 
the  naval  annals  of  the  world.  A  month's  rest  was  had  at 
Magdalena  Bay  to  permit  the  gunners  to  engage  in  target 
practice.  While  thus  occupied  these  superb  marksmen, 
aided  by  the  clearness  of  the  atmosphere,  promptly  made 
innumerable  new  records  for  big  gun  shooting. 

From  Hampton  Roads  to  California  the  16,000  ton 
Connecticut  bore  the  flag  of  Rear  Admiral  Robley  D. 
Evans,  U.S.N. ,  the  commander  in  chief  of  the  magnificent 
squadron,  who  thus  fitly  crowned  a  splendid  career  of  nigh 
half  a  century  in  his  nation's  service. 

Note  C,  Chapter  XXII.  In  his  ^^Noticia  de  la  Califor- 
nia!^ (Madrid,  1757),  the  old  chronicler  Miguel  Venegas 
presented  a  crude  wood-cut  of  the  California  mountain 
sheep,  probably  the  earliest  recorded  likeness  of  the  species. 
Hornaday's  Camp-Fir es  on  Desert  and  Lava^'  gives  recent 
and  entertaining  account  of  Mexican  big-horn  as  found  in 
Sonora.  It  is  of  interest  to  note  that  the  suggestion  con- 
tained in  this  latter  work  and  in  the  ^'Mother  of  California*^ 
has  borne  fruit  and  that  these  noble  animals  are  now  pro- 
tected by  federal  enactments.  In  passing,  I  have  not  seen 
any  of  the  specimens  collected  on  the  Mexican  mainland  by 
Mr.  Hornaday. 

Note  D,  Chapter  XXIII.  In  numbers  the  Cocupas  are 
the  most  considerable  Indian  tribe  in  Baja  California.  So 
many  of  them,  however,  pass  back  and  forth  across  the 
Colorado  visting  their  kinsmen  in  Sonora  that  an  accurate 
enumeration  Is  impossible.  I  should  consider  three  hun- 
dred a  close  estimate  of  the  Baja  California  members  of 
the  tribe.  The  reputation  of  the  Cocupas  for  peace  has 
always  been  excellent  and  in  sharp  contrast  to  that  of  their 
neighbors,  the  Yumas  and  Yaquls. 


334      CAMP  AND  CAMINO  IN  LOWER  CALIFORNIA 


Note  E,  Chapter  XXIV.  I  had  traveled  some  twenty- 
five  hundred  miles  in  the  saddle  besides  an  equal  distance 
on  the  Pacific  and  the  Gulf.  Accepting  local  estimates, 
thirty-five  hundred  miles  would  be  more  accurate  for  the 
land  journeying;  the  value  of  such  estimates,  however,  has 
been  commented  upon  in  Chapter  XV.  Though  I  crossed 
the  Peninsula  eleven  times,  six  days  at  the  old  Mission  of 
Santa  Maria  and  an  equal  time  in  Santa  Rosalia  were  the 
longest  rests  made  along  the  way.  An  idea  of  the  arid 
nature  of  Lower  California  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact 
that  out  of  two  hundred  nights  spent  in  the  open,  seventy 
were  **dry  camps." 

As  the  reader  of  investigating  mind  may  be  interested 
therein  I  submit  the  following  data  not  directly  noted  in 
the  text,  viz. :  Beginning  my  wanderings  in  poor  health,  I 
experienced  occasional  periods  of  indisposition  and  dizzi- 
ness during  the  first  six  weeks;  after  that  I  **got  my  second 
wind,"  concluding  my  adventures  twenty  pounds  heavier 
than  at  the  outset.  Despite  sleeping  in  rainstorms,  numer- 
ous drenchings  and  sharp  and  sudden  changes  of  tempera- 
ture, I  did  not  suffer  from  a  single  cold.  And  yet  upon  my 
visit  to  San  Francisco  in  June,  I  was  **sniffling"  after  the 
first  night,  sleeping  indoors ! 

The  varying,  and  not  infrequently  alkali,  waters  of  the 
country  seem  to  have  no  injurious  effects  on  the  system. 
Of  foodstuffs  I  found  broiled  meats  (whether  fresh  or 
dried),  hardtack,  flour-and-water  tortillas,  boiled  rice  with 
wild  honey,  stewed  apricots,  prunes  and  peaches,  the  most 
satisfying  and  wholesome.  Of  beans  and  cereals  I  shortly 
tired,  while  rice,  which  I  rarely  eat  at  home,  was  always 
acceptable.  Not  infrequently  I  experienced  a  childlike  long- 
ing for  candy  or  lump  sugar.  On  the  deserts  I  had  little 
appetite,  though  I  continually  craved  fresh  fruits  and  vege- 
tables and  astonished  myself  by  enjoying  raw  onions;  in  the 
sierras  I  greatly  appreciated  fatty  meats  and  was  always 
hungry.  As  I  never  care  for  tea,  coffee  or  milk,  I  lived 
without  such  beverages.  Moreover,  I  carried  neither 
canned  goods  nor  ham.  Between  antelope,  bighorn  and  deer, 
native  dried  beef  and  the  superabundance  of  ducks,  doves, 
rabbits  and  quail,  I  ate  but  little  bacon. 

Finally,  I  used  forty  revolver  and  one  hundred  and  ten 
carbine  cartridges  and  nine  hundred  .22's.  Of  three  cam- 
eras one,  only,  came  through  uninjured. 


APPENDIX 


335 


2.    LOWER  CALIFORNIA  BIBLIOGRAPHY. 
Anon.    Voyage  of  Mons.  Chappe  D'Auteroche  to  Cali- 
fornia to  Observe  the  Transit  of  Venus.  London, 
1778. 

Anon.  Lives  and  Voyages  of  Drake,  Cavendish  and  DarU' 
pier.    New  York,  1832. 

Anon.  Lives  and  Voyages  of  Early  Navigators,  with  a 
History  of  the  Buccaneers.    New  York,  1835. 

Anon.  Historical  Outline  of  Lower  California.  San 
Francisco,  186 — . 

Anon.  Lower  California,  Its  Geography  and  Character- 
istics.  New  York,  1868. 

Anon.  A  Real  American.  **Bentley's  Miscellany,"  Vol. 
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INDEX 


A 

"Adriatic  of  the  West,"  127. 

Augua  Caliente,  41,  117. 

Az'iSi  Dulce,  80,  276. 

Aguaje  San  Juan,  126. 

Alacran,  133,  294. 

Alamitos,  24. 

Alamo,  19,  31,  289. 

Alarcon,  Hernando  de,  128,  304. 

Alforcas,  33. 

Almaca  Bay,  297. 

Americano,  31,  216. 

Angel  de  la  Guar  da  Island,  126. 

Anita,  20,  290. 

Annexation,  55. 

Antelope,  90,  106,  136,  144,  146,  152, 
209. 

Antelope  of  the  Sierras,  208,  287. 
Antidote,  202. 
Arnes,  Padre,  85. 
Arrilliga,  Governor,  20,  269,  298. 
Arroyes,  38,  204,  231,  280. 
Arroyo  Grande,  57,  66,  293,  297. 
Arsenic,  102. 
Audubon,  113. 

B 

Baegert,  Padre  Jakob,  113. 
Baile,  167,  262. 
Bancroft,  56,  65,  215. 
Bay  of  Los  Angeles,  127. 
Bears,  271,  286. 
Bells,  III,  118,  207,  215,  221. 
Berrenda,  90,  vide  Antelope. 
Bewener,  133. 
Ben,  32,  58,  61. 

Big-Horn,  25,  90,  113,  209,  286,  295. 
Big-Horn  Meat,  30,  95. 
Birds,  104,  190. 
Black  Warrior  Lagoon,  147. 
Books,  99,  106,  170,  198. 
Borrego,  vide  Big-Horn. 
Bouchet,  Mayor,  175. 
Boulbon,  Count  Raousset,  50. 
Browne,  J.  Ross,  146,  252,  274. 
Buried  Treasure,  19,  86,  170,  221, 
222. 

Burros,  32,  82,  120,  158,  197,  199, 
226,  228,  281,  299,  304. 

C 

Cabeza  de  Vaca,  18,  25. 
Cabrillo,  Juan,  172,  224,  243. 


Cacachilas,  237,  242. 
Cacti,  23,  62,  103,  189,  228. 
Callaitte,  M.,  187. 
*'Calamahue  Mountain,"  274. 
Calamajuet,  97. 
Calamyget  Mission,  85,  102. 
Calmalli,  70,  138,  I39,  153- 
Camalu,  266. 

Camino,  160,  171,  208,  229,  276. 

Campanile,  135. 

Campo,  321. 

Canal  de  Ballenas,  127. 

Carbajakaamang,  85. 

Carmen  Island,  216. 

Caroline,  50. 

Castro,  138,  141,  147,  158,  172. 
Catarina  Yumas,  18,  20,  290. 
Cedros  Island,  150,  261. 
Children,  118,  161,  177,  217. 
Chiquita  Pithaya,  155. 
Chivos,  90. 
Cholla,  104,  189. 
Clavijero,  Padre,  65,  112,  209. 
Cochimis,  72,  loi,  no,  118. 
Cocupa  Indians,  275,  309,  318. 
Cocupa  Sierras,  297,  308. 
Coffee,  115,  227. 
*'Colonel,"  278,  314. 
Colorado  Desert,  298. 
Colorado  River,  18,  297,  303. 
Comondu,  202,  204. 
Condor,  26,  271. 
Consag,  Padre,  90,  126,  305. 
Contentment,  96. 
Contrahandistas,  126. 
Cookery,  34,  89,  201,  227,  313. 
Coronado,  32,  172,  197. 
Correo,  33,  175- 
Cortez,  32,  199,  239. 
Courtesy,  217,  230,  259. 
Coyotes,  22,  231. 
Credulity,  99. 
Curacao,  214,  223,  239. 
Currency,  131,  135. 

D 

Dancing,  in,  142,  167. 
Deer,  106,  230,  271,  311. 
Dewey,  Commander,  274. 
Diaz,  President,  179. 
Dominicans,  76. 
Distances,  189,  214,  223. 
Doves,  155,  190,  218,  231. 
Drinking-bout,  61. 


343 


344 


INDEX 


E 

El  Aimaly  131. 

El  Providencia,  270. 

El  Boleo,  176. 

El  Camino  Real,  22,  44,  75,  79,  loi, 

188,  203,  211. 
Endurance,  63,  307. 
Ensenada,  259. 

F 

Fiesta,  141. 
Fleas,  57,  263. 

Flowers,  123,  128,  207,  217,  222,  271. 
Fog,  150. 

Fort  McKibben,  51. 
Frailes,  19,  no. 
Fruit,  166,  168,  222. 

G 

Gabb,  Wm.,  192. 

Gamuza,  90. 

Gandia,  Duchess  of,  85. 

Garyzar,  Rudolf o,  175,  179. 

Girls,  161,  167,  193,  194,  231,  265, 

282. 
Goats,  90. 
Gringo,  216. 

Guadalupe  Mission,  192. 
Guarachas,  19,  183,  203. 
Guiacuras,  72. 

Gulfo  Camino,  ys*  i3i»  132,  276. 
Gun  Permits,  140,  230. 

H 

Hall,  140. 

Hardy,  Lieut,  193,  305. 
Hardy  River,  297,  302,  303,  306. 
Heat,  285,  288,  300,  302,  307. 
Heller,  Edmund  274. 
Hieroglyphics  64,  65,  288. 
Highways,  75. 
Honey,  38,  109. 
Hospitality,  167,  176,  217. 
Howard,  Charley,  98. 
Humboldt,  Alexander,  113. 

I 

Iglesia,  78,  83,  no,  135,  206,  220. 
Iguana,  118. 

Indian  Life,  39,  62,  109,  118,  129. 
Indian  Trail,  37. 
Insanity,  181,  184,  343. 
Irrigation,  78,  112,  218,  233. 
Isla  de  California,  169. 

J 

Jesuits,  72,  76,  168,  191. 
Jaceles,  168,  230. 


Jack-rabbits,  24,  136,  191. 
Jesus,  79,  174,  224. 
Josefa,  141. 
Journals,  146. 
Juan,  18,  23,  297. 

K 

Kadakamann,  168. 
Kaliwas,  61,  272,  282. 

L 

La  Corona,  270. 

Ladrones,  20,  41,  271. 

La  Grulla,  270,  277. 

Laguna  Hanson,  320. 

Laguna  Salada,  312,  317. 

*'Laird,"  The,  98,  loi,  123. 

La  Paloma,  lyy. 

La  Paz,  173,  223,  238. 

Lario,  131. 

Lawrence,  16. 

La  Yerba,  131. 

L'Encentada,  270. 

Link,  Padre,  79,  no,  273. 

Lions,  37,  231,  271,  277. 

Llanos  de  Ojo  Liebre,  136,  144,  146. 

Llanos  de  Santa  Maria,  96,  106. 

Llorente,  Padre,  21. 

Longevity,  39. 

Loreto,  188,  214,  253. 

Los  Flores,  128. 

Los  Parros,  218. 

Lost  Mission,  169,  336. 

Lower  California,  17. 

Luyando,  Padre,  168. 

M 

Magdalena  Bay,  214,  223,  247. 
Maguay,  64. 

Man-of-War  Island,  255. 

Mala  Zorea,  202,  228. 

Maps,  37,  228. 

Marco  Polo,  114. 

Mar  de  Cortez,  63,  82,  211. 

Marriage,  139. 

Marron,  Praemundi,  183,  226,  243. 
Marseliano,  Padre,  194,  201. 
Matancital,  223,  232. 
Matomi,  79,  269. 
Mayorga,  Padre,  205. 
Malendrez,  54. 
Melons,  40,  310,  315. 
Mescal,  107,  167,  200,  201,  218,  292. 
Mexia,  Mauricio,  194. 
Mexican  War,  47,  303. 
Mines,  97,  138,  174,  182,  241,  266, 
267,  321. 


INDEX 


345 


Mirages,  147,  300. 

''Miss  Bertie,"  265. 

Missions,  75,  169,  213,  218,  222,  225. 

Mountain  Sheep,  vide  Big-Hom. 

Mo 20,  31,  79,  198,  224. 

Mulege,  192. 

Municipal  Court,  182. 

Music,  III. 

N 

Nature,  79,  93- 
Nelson,  E.  W.,  114. 

O 

Ojo  Liebre,  146. 

Olives,  112,  166,  192,  195. 

Onyx,  80. 

Orchilla,  253. 

Osuna,  Don  Jose,  201. 

Otera,  Rita,  loi,  109. 

Outfit,  31,  224. 

Oymart,  Sr.,  309. 

P 

Pack  Rats,  98. 

Paintings,  no,  171,  215,  217,  220. 
Pais,  38. 

Palms,  150,  161,  166,  168,  195,  204, 

224. 
Panoche,  168. 
Paraiso,  132. 
Parson,  32. 

Passport,  140,  232,  270,  275. 
Patio,  83,  201. 

Pattie,  James  O.,  21,  48,  298,  305. 
Pearls,  238. 
Pedregal,  103. 

Pedestrianism,  203,  228,  229. 
Pericues,  72,  91. 
Pestilence,  72,  91. 
Petroglyphs,  65,  272,  288. 
Piccolo,  Padre,  221. 
Pichilingue,  244. 
Picturesqueness,  135. 
Pines,  271,  320. 
Plains  of  Buenos  Ayres,  79. 
Plank,  Dr.,  128. 
Portola,  Don  Caspar  de,  69. 
Primera  Clase,  180,  194,  244. 
Presentacion  Mission,  225. 
Purisima,  201. 
Purisima  Rio,  198. 
Purisima  Mission,  201. 


Quali,  24. 
Quarries,  80,  248. 

R 

Railroad,  57. 
Rain,  75,  132,  235. 


Rattlesnakes,  191,  227. 
Rancheros,  200,  230. 
Ravens,  94. 
Reavis,  Frank,  137. 
Rebozo,  167,  203. 
Romero,  Don  Amadeo,  216. 
Roosevelt,  Colonel,  115. 
Ropa,  122,  123. 
Rosand,  M.,  174. 
Rosarita,  276. 
Rothschilds,  62. 
Runaway  Couple,  81,  242. 
Rurales,  174,  229,  275. 

S 

Salamankaser,  100,  202. 

Salt,  192,  216. 

Salto  Los  Reyes,  235. 

Salvatierra,  Padre,  168,  205,  213. 

San  Angel,  149,  156,  160. 

San  Antonio  Real,  241. 

San  Augustine,  80. 

San  Borja,  85,  109. 

San  Felipe  Desert,  67,  269,  285,  288. 

San  Fernandines,  76,  77. 

San  Fernando,  64,  69,  75,  77. 

San  Francisquito,  96. 

Sanginez,  Coronel,  237. 

Sangue,  94. 

San  Ignacio,  156,  161,  164,  165,  167. 

San  Ignacito,  112. 

San  Joaquin,  68,  70. 

San  Juan  de  Dios,  79,  269,  276. 

San  Jose  del  Cabo,  44,  245. 

San  Lorenzo  Island,  133. 

San  Luis  Gonzaga  Mission,  234. 

San  Pedro  Martir  Mission,  269. 

San  Pedro  Martir  Sierra,  17,  37, 

68,  261,  266,  267. 
San  Quintin,  57. 
San  Sebastian,  133. 
Santa  Catarina  Mission,  19,  289. 
Santa  Gertrudis  Mission,  135. 
Santa  Lucia,  192. 
Santa  Margarita  Island,  247. 
Santa  Maria  Mission,  83,  85,  89. 
Santa  Maria  de  la  Magdalena,  191. 
Santa  Marita,  132. 
Sant'  Augada,  173. 
Santa  Rosalia,  173,  174. 
Santiago,  66. 
Santo  Domingo,  264. 
Santo  Tomas,  34. 
San  Vicente,  43. 
San  Xavier,  218. 
Scorpion,  294,  vide  Alacron. 
Skunks,  241. 

''Senor  Dick,"  59,  69,  79,  97. 


346 


INDEX 


Seri  Indians,  126,  128,  133. 

Serra,  Padre  Junipero,  69,  76,  78, 

213,  268. 
Sheep,  Mountain,  vide  Big-Horn. 
''Shelling,^'  94- 
Side-Saddles,  Native,  166. 
Side- Winders,  145,  228,  299. 
Siemper  Vivens,  155,  159. 
Sierra  de  la  Giganta,  209,  216. 
Sierra  del  Pinto,  297. 
Sistiago,  Padre,  168. 
Skulls,  no,  126. 
Snow,  22. 
Socorro,  265,  267. 
Soladeros,  119. 
Solecuati,  202. 
Song  Birds,  123,  190. 
Starvation,  81. 
St.  Denis,  260. 
Surgery,  100. 
Sugar-Cane,  196. 

T 

Taje,  114. 

Tarantula,  130,  202. 
Taravel,  Padre,  150. 
Tecarte,  321. 
Teguas,  115,  198. 

Thirst,  149,  157,  159,  166,  172,  198, 

248,  298. 
Thunderstorms,  309,  320. 
Tia  Juana,  321. 
Tiburon,  128,  133,  190. 
Timoteo,  79,  89,  260,  276,  288. 
Tinajas,  66,  132,  159,  294. 
Toasts,  142,  187. 
Toba,  Don  Benigo  de  la,  234. 
Toothache,  115. 

Tortillas,  140,  148,  199,  204,  228,  230. 
Tower  Castle,  147,  157. 
Trails,  37»  102,  228,  255,  276. 


Trees,  174. 
Tres  Palomas,  270. 
Tres  Virgenes,  170,  173. 
Triunfo,  241. 
Turtles,  126,  127,  255. 

U 

Ugarte,  Padre  Juan,  305. 
Ulloa,  Francisco  de,  249,  305. 

V 

Valdellon,  Tomas,  21. 
Vallecitos,  270. 
Valledaras,  264,  310. 
Valle  Trinidad,  63,  269,  288. 
Valley  of  Palms,  82. 
Vega,  Coronel  Celsa,  259. 
Victoria,  Sr.  Gabriel,  59,  260. 
Villavacensio,  Sr.  Fidel,  115. 
Villavacensio,  Sr.  Guillermo,  166. 
Viznaga,  64,  154. 

W 

Walker,  '"Filibuster,"  29,  49,  239, 

291,  298. 
Weather,  17,  23. 

Wild  Flowers,  123,  128,  153,  189. 
Wine,  112. 
Whales,  126,  304. 

X 

Ximenes,  Pedro,  25,  31,  71,  260. 
Y 

Yaquis,  47,  109,  120,  126,  177,  185, 
217. 

Ybarra,  Don  Emaliano,  137,  143. 
Youbai,  Agua  de,  104. 


GETTY  CENTER  LIBRARY 


3125  00705  1911 


